The Fifth World
by Kita Kitsune
Summary: The Mayans predicted that The Fourth World would come to an end on December 21, 2012; the same Prophesized date for Michael and Lucifer's Final Battle. Team Free Will finds itself working with the queerest pair of unlikely allies, but, caught between angels and demons with No God In Sight, victory won't come easy. SPN-GO crossover AU. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

_**What follows is a long Author's Note that will only happen again at the end, I promise. Please read.**_

_GO is "Good Omens", a novel written in 1990 by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. (There's a four-part BBC mini-series based on it coming out in 2013!) I highly recommend reading it if you haven't, and if you have (and thus know the characters)—sit back and enjoy. :3 It'll take a little while for the GO characters to show up, so please be patient. The slash will also take a while, but it'll be worth it in the end, I promise._

_**For those SPN fans who **__**don't **__** know Good Omens**__, don't worry—I'll give you a brief introduction of the pertinent characters, so you're not confused. The only real spoiler for GO is that the world doesn't end (which most people would've seen coming, anyway, but…). It's still a good read—and you would appreciate the GO characters more if you read the novel before reading this fic—but I understand not everyone has the time or money for that._

_GO AU is very slight. Everything in the novel happens as it did, and the characters' histories are essentially the same. You'll be made aware of any tweaks I've made to them, don't worry. _

_SPN AU is for storyline and plot, as I've fiddled with the Winchesters' backstories, when certain things happened, and so on. Hard to warn for spoilers, but knowing up to the end of Season 5 is probably safe._

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 1/24

Word Count: 7,975

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Novaks, Dean, Bobby

Warning(s): Mild cursing, possession.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Saturday, June 2, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

Sections labeled for year changes. This notation was meant to be translated ('read in your head') as the old-fashioned "In the Year of Our Lord one-thousand nine-hundred ninety-nine" but since that's so long, "Anno Domini #,###" worked better. [ You should be happy I didn't use Roman Numerals~? x3 ]

: : : : : : :

_2 Corinthians 6:01-02 _

_Working together with him, then, we appeal to you not to receive the grace of God in vain. For he says, "In a favorable time I listened to you, and in a day of salvation I have helped you." Behold, now is the favorable time; behold, now is the day of salvation._

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 1,999__-_

James Albert Novak was eleven years old when he came home from school that day.

That Day being, of course, the day he found his older sister curled up and hugging her knees in the bathtub. He paused at the doorway, then slowly climbed in over the lip of the tub, sitting quietly at her side. When she lifted her face, it was streaked with ruined make-up, her eyes red and swollen, face blotchy.

"Jimmy." He blinked at her, brow knotting in confusion.

"What's wrong? Did Andy dump you, again?" She laughed—a dry, hurt, broken sound—and buried her face back in her knees, shoulders shaking. After a moment, he put an awkward, gangly arm around her. She leaned into it, but he felt unsettled. Amelia was the rock of their family. Sure, she was only four years older than him, but she brought in the money to keep their apartment and pay the utilities. Their parents, hippies since the '60s, were holed up in their bedroom, high on either pot, LSD or—their favorite—amphetamines. Amelia shifted, burying her face in his shoulder and jarring Jimmy from his thoughts. Her mumbled words dropped like a pit of ice into his stomach.

"Jimmy. I'm pregnant."

_-__Anno Domini 2,002__-_

Jimmy hoisted up the bundle on his back, more, peering around the end of the aisle, waiting for Amelia to return. A chubby two-year-old hand suddenly fisted in his uncut hair and he winced, smiling painfully back at his little niece, over his shoulder.

"Aw, Claire, let go. That hurts!" She giggled at him, eyes bright and wide and started to flail her little arms, pulling with the death grip that only babies and toddlers can muster.

"Immy, Immy!" He sighed good-naturedly, moving her to rest on his hip—a firm arm around her midsection for stability—and using his now-free hand to disengage her grip, chiding her softly.

"Claire, you can't keep pulling my hair like that. It's—" But she was already distracted, making grabby hands behind him, eyes lit up, again.

"Mommy!" Amelia crooned at her as she came up behind them, leaning over Jimmy's shoulder and poking Claire gently on the nose, so she giggled.

"Hey there, babygirl. Been good to Jimmy while I was gone?" Amelia grinned at him, kissing his cheek and mussing up his hair as she drew back with a laugh, and started walking towards the checkout, her arm around a bag of pull-up diapers. (Claire was still in the process of being potty-trained, and the cloth diapers just weren't cutting it, anymore.) "Looks like you're in need of a haircut, boyo! Wouldn't want Claire to pull it all out, at how long it's getting."

Things were still normal, at home. Well—their dad still got his compensation check in the mail from the government (for being wounded in Vietnam), and Amelia still managed to get him to sign off on it so she could deposit it into their bank account, for groceries. Whenever she didn't manage to snatch that check, it went straight to the drugs, so it'd become habit, by now.

_-__Anno Domini 2,002, A Few Days Later__-_

Jimmy was sitting in the living room playing with Claire (some blocks they'd gotten at some yardsale, somewhere) when he heard raised voices echoing from their parents' room, and glanced over. Claire was mumbling to herself, stacking and moving her toys around, so she didn't notice when Amelia came storming down the hallway, her eyes bright and tears just spilling over. She jumped onto the couch, grabbing an old pillow and burying her face in it. Jimmy just watched her, for a moment, before standing and heading into the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water, and sat down beside her. After a few minutes to compose herself, Amelia's face popped back out from where it'd been smushed against the pillow, and Jimmy offered her the glass. She smiled at him, half-faking, but took it, anyway. In silence, they watched Claire continue to stack her blocks and shuffle around the few other toys sprinkled around her. Amelia's voice was soft.

"You were such a different kid when you were her age, Jim." Jimmy blinked at her, surprised by the sudden comparison, then looked back at Claire, swallowing. Amelia never talked about their childhood.

"Was I?" Amelia laughed a little—still too brittle to be a real laugh—and rested her chin on the pillow, staring at but not seeing her young daughter.

"Yeah. Ever since you were a baby. You never babbled nonsense to yourself, never just laughed and smiled—you just stared at everything. You were always frowning, always quiet. You know, you didn't say your first word until you were five?" Jimmy started, he hadn't known that. "Mom—" Amelia's voice started to break, on that word—"Um, Mom always said you had the face of a constipated professor." Against his better judgment, Jimmy huffed a small laugh, to that, glancing over at his sister with a smile.

"Guess it's good I changed, huh?" Amelia peered over at him, quiet, but then her face broke out into an answeringly feeble smile.

"Yeah. It's funny. You were a totally different kid until your first day of school. We didn't have the money for kindergarten, and back then Mom was still working the graveyard shift at the grocery, so…" Amelia rubbed at an eye with the heel of her hand as her shoulders shrugged, and Jimmy's heart ached with her. He didn't remember a time when Mom had been _responsible_, much less sober. Amelia's voice softened. "And you just came back from your first day of school with a huge smile on your face, talking a mile a minute and just like every other six-year-old in existence." Here she laughed, shaking her head. "Guess we should've introduced you to other kids your age before then, but there were no kids living around here and it costs money to take the bus, and Mom didn't want to let you out of her sight—"

Jimmy tried to remember a time when Mom would've doted on him—he really did. But he just couldn't see it. She stayed holed up in the room with Dad, doing drugs or having sex so loudly it was a miracle Claire didn't wake up. But it'd been like that even before her—their parents just didn't _care _anymore. Amelia had thought they should all just pack up and run away, numerous times, but every day it came down to the fact that Dad still got a government check, and that Amelia's job didn't pay enough on its own to support one just-turned-eighteen-year-old, her fourteen-year-old brother and her two-year-old daughter. Not to mention that without emancipating Jimmy, Amelia could be charged with kidnapping, but—

He'd tried to convince Amelia to move out on her own, to find a place and take care of Claire and not have to worry about him or Mom or Dad. But she'd just smiled sadly at him, shook her head and ruffled his hair.

_"I couldn't leave you like that, Jim. You're the only family I've got left. And besides, who would watch Claire while I'm away at work? I can't afford babysitting or daycare—"_

Jimmy didn't have many memories of his childhood, and Amelia wasn't often in the mood for sharing. He'd never told her—because childhood memories were more painful for Amelia, since she _actually _had them—but he really didn't remember anything before that first day of school, back when he was six. He didn't think it was that strange, really—he'd heard most people couldn't remember their childhoods very well. But there was a niggling sensation in the back of his head, every time Jimmy gave himself that answer. It almost felt like an excuse, like he was just covering something up that he couldn't understand. And anyway, the pictures of his childhood had stopped around age six, when Mom had her nervous breakdown. It was like she couldn't deal with the world, anymore. Like as soon as Jimmy had headed off to school, she couldn't stand being away from him and still be sane. Dad had always been bad, but he'd been doing all right—or so Amelia told him—until Mom collapsed. He'd been regulating it, but when Gwen had just given up on any semblance of being an adult, Charles hadn't been far behind. So they drowned whatever they couldn't deal with by being constantly high on some substance or another, but mostly keeping it to their bedroom. It made some nights easy, others nightmarish, depending on how awake and coherent they were. If they'd just pass out, the nights would be quiet, but more often than not there were loud giggles and shuffling, followed by a hard, rhythmic pounding that left nothing to the imagination.

As a result, Amelia kept a baby gate wedged in the hallway so Claire wouldn't accidentally wander in, and had long enforced the rule that only she was allowed into their parents' bedroom. She didn't want either of them getting exposed to that, and Amelia kept a sharp eye on her parents, declaring that any drugs they left lying around outside their bedroom got flushed down the toilet. As hard as it was for Gwen and Charles to remember, at least _that_ had gotten hammered into their frizzled brains over the years. But still, Jimmy would always do a check of the living room before letting Claire play in it. No sense introducing a toddler to those substances. And so far, it had worked pretty well.

Still, Jimmy didn't have many friends at school. Most of the other students' parents knew their situation, and told their kids to stay clear of him. But Hana was different. In the morning, she always greeted Jimmy with a smile, and at the end of the day patted him on his shoulder as he went home. They had lunch together, more often quiet than not, just enjoying the company. It was his one saving grace, because every time they had gym class, the bigger boys would stuff Jimmy into lockers and jeer and taunt him because of his parents' failings. But when they were gone he kicked himself out of the locker, brushed himself off and held his head high. He wouldn't let it get him down, and he wouldn't seek revenge. Amelia had always been religious—she'd gone to Sunday school when the family still went, even—and had taken charge of Jimmy's religious education. Granted, it wasn't much, but being able to find fortitude in Jesus' teachings to "turn the other cheek" gave Jimmy a righteous will to endure whatever was thrown at him, in this life. It would get better. The trials he had now would give way to angelic singing and the Light of God illuminating his soul in the afterlife. So he would not seek to cast down his enemies, would not seek to bite back at them with hard words. He would only take the beatings, knowing in his heart that those bullies were doing more harm to themselves when they hurt him, than he could ever consciously do to them.

And everything was fine, everything was normal, until the day they shoved him in front of that bus.

_-__Anno Domini 2,003__-_

Amelia and Claire had come to pick him up from school, that day. It was his fifteenth birthday, and Amelia said they could go see a movie at the theater and get some popcorn. It was something they never did, and he was so excited when he saw them that, without thinking, he waved at them across the street. Some of the bullies caught it, and sidled over to him, leering over his shoulder.

"Izzat your sister? She's pretty hot! Too bad she's got a kid, though." Jimmy whirled, eyes wide and something very hot boiling in the back of his throat. The bully grinned down at him, at his reaction, leaning in close enough to taunt. "What, that bother you? That your sister's a _slut_?" Something red warmed up the back of his head and Jimmy didn't realize he was breathing hard until a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder. He glanced to his right, and saw Hana's face, set and hard. The bullies leaned back in surprise.

"Calm down. They're not worth it." She cast him a meaningful glance, then took her hand away and turned, heading off down the sidewalk. Jimmy took a breath, closing his eyes and regaining control over himself. Hana was right—they _weren't_ worth it. Nothing was worth violence. So Jimmy turned around, too, stopping at the crosswalk and waiting for the light to turn green. But the bullies would have none of that—they advanced on him, circling around behind him like hyenas, garish sneers painting their faces.

"What, you're gonna listen to a _girl?"_

"You're even wimpier than we thought!" They started to jostle him back and forth between them, but Jimmy kept his eyes fixed on the crossing signal, tuning them out. He'd cross, and he'd go have a birthday outing with Amelia and Claire, and it would be wonderful and fun and they'd all be happy and—

"Hey, you _listening_ to us, geek?" And then one of the bigger boys shoved him harder than ever before, and Jimmy stumbled into the traffic lane, a horn blaring and his body unable to do anything but look on as the bus' metal vent grate came speeding at him—

And then.

And then he was on the other side of the street, gasping for breath, staring unseeingly at the dumbfounded bullies on the other side of the road as the bus passed by, horn still blaring, while his legs gave out beneath him and Jimmy collapsed. Amelia's worried voice was muffled, her hands comforting but unfelt as they landed on his shoulders, half-sobbing and Claire bawling at the top of her lungs as she threw herself at Jimmy's stomach, clinging there, and then the bullies scattered across the way but the only thing Jimmy could focus on was Hana's eyes.

They were steadfast and aloof, watching him from out of her pale face as she stood on the opposite sidewalk. Her hands were flat, almost limp, against the sides of her dress and her shoulder-length shock of red hair—pulled back with a bow barrette to keep it off her neck—shifted just slightly with the wind.

Jimmy blinked and she was gone.

Ever since then, Jimmy felt like he was looking over his shoulder for something. Like something had fractured, that day, and he was no longer safe. It was a ridiculous feeling, he kept telling himself—but it just wouldn't go away. What was stranger, was that Hana's presence no longer made him feel better. They would still have lunch together in silence, but every time Jimmy looked away from her—whether it was at his lunch, or across the cafeteria, or at his book—he felt her stare burning into the side of his head. She'd never stared at him like that, before, and it unnerved him. The bullies had stayed away from him ever since the bus incident, spreading rumors about what had happened. It wasn't very believable, thankfully, so Jimmy's teachers just wrote it off as another attempt by the bigger boys to leave him out.

But Jimmy didn't know what it was, because nothing with _him_ had changed, except for the headache he got right after. He knew it looked like it had been something odd, but wasn't it just as likely that he had sprinted, in a surge of adreanaline, to the other side of the street? Couldn't that be a possibility? After all, Jimmy was just as normal as everyone else, neverminding his parents' addictions. He was just like everyone else, so why did those bullies always single him out? Why did Hana talk to him less, even as she hung around him more? Why was everything changing?

Jimmy brought this up to Amelia and she chuckled at him, messing up his hair and saying it was a natural part of growing up. And so Jimmy believed her, he really did. Amelia was his big sister, and she had never been wrong about anything before. Why should she be wrong now?

It's a couple weeks after the bus incident that Jimmy starts having nightmares. They're not horrible—actually, he can never remember them—but he wakes up with a scream dying in the back of his throat as Amelia shakes him awake, Claire upset and screeching in sympathy for him on the other side of their shared bed. Her eyes are always terrified, always asking if he's all right, but Jimmy can only blink up at her and give a dazed smile and say—

"Sorry. I had another nightmare?" It's more of a question than he wants it to be, and after a few nights of this Jimmy takes to sleeping on the couch in the living room, on his stomach so he can muffle his shrieks. The nightmares don't come every night, but they pour out suddenly like a deluge after the first one comes, and the others are more frequent. Eventually he starts to get used to them, Jimmy thinks, because he no longer remembers waking up in the middle of the night, and Amelia doesn't look nearly so tired, anymore. So Jimmy thinks that maybe he's stopped screaming. But he still wakes up, choked and seeing images fleeing before his eyes even as he tries to hold onto them, to try and understand what it means. The only things he can remember are a slimy sensation dripping over his entire body and a distinct lack of being able to discern his surroundings. It's like everything's been bleached, so the scenes he even half-remembered are only landscapes, and he can't tell you how he knows but he _does_—he knows there were people in those scenes. So he's blocking out the real images, whatever they are, and only seeing the basest form of them—the background.

But Jimmy is all right with that. He can deal with nightmares he doesn't remember, because they don't leave any weight on him. They just slip right off his shoulders, right out of his mind, and so he goes about his business as any other teenager would. Almost everyone has forgotten what happened a year ago on his fifteenth birthday—mostly because none of them know about the nightmares. But Jimmy is more alone than he was, too, because Hana's family has up and moved away by the time his sophomore year of high school starts.

_-__Anno Domini 2,004, A Monday Afternoon__-_

Claire is four years old when it happens. It's afternoon and Jimmy is doing his Economics homework, Amelia is out working for the evening (Jimmy will put Claire to bed and set out dinner for her, since she gets home late), their parents are passed out in the bedroom, as usual, and Claire is coloring in a notebook from two years ago that Jimmy didn't fully fill up with Chemistry notes. She scribbles with a fat crayon around his equations and diagrams of chemical interactions before she suddenly sits up, ramrod-straight. Jimmy doesn't look up, at first, but when a red crayon is smacked down on the paragraph he's reading in his textbook—pinned, by a chubby hand—he jerks back, blinking in surprise at his niece. Claire's eyes are narrowed and dark, her eyebrows knit together and her face set as still as stone. She doesn't speak. Jimmy regains himself.

"Claire? Does your tummy hurt?" If possible, she glares even harder at him as he starts to stand up, and snatches his wrist and drags him back down to her level in an impossible show of strength. He's gasping in pain at the tightness of her grip, blue eyes wide as she appears calm, as though this is nothing to her. Jimmy's mind is racing, trying to find an answer, but then Claire speaks, her voice oddly low and mature and allowing no room for argument or interruption. Her eyes on his are like the sun on a seed, and Jimmy abruptly feels at once tiny and as though that gaze is too much for him to stand in its full intensity. As though Claire is looking at him through a filter, so he doesn't burn up.

"It is you." He shudders under the force of that voice, raising a hand as though to ward off whatever is claiming him, shaking his head and babbling.

"N-No, I—w-what're you talking about, Claire, it's just Jimmy—I'm—" The thing with Claire's face glowers at him, grip tightening and Jimmy cries out weakly, moving a hand to hers, trying to pry it off even as the thing's words rumble out around them, imprinting themselves into Jimmy's brain.

"Stop fighting. I am here to—"

"Hold it!" Claire looks up, focusing somewhere behind his head (towards the door, Jimmy vaguely realizes) and her face turns into a frightful mask.

"_You_—" She hisses, and her grip on his wrist tightens, but an instant later a round of two shots goes off and Jimmy cries out, seeing a line of blood drip down from a sizzling wound on Claire's cheek, as though the casing was dipped in acid. Her eyes have darkened further in fury, a fiercesome stare Jimmy's not sure he can ever forget. But then Claire slowly grins, her voice broad and powerful, like a lion playing with mice.

"You wouldn't harm an innocent, now would you?" Jimmy can't look behind him, can barely move, but he can hear someone beginning to chant in the background as another yells, the sound of shells reloading stupidly fast and next a gun being cocked echoing in the room.

"_Omni potentas dei potestatum invoco,__omni potentas dei potestatum invoco—"_

"You get outta that little girl or my next shot won't miss!"

_"—aborbe terran__, h__oc angelorum in obsequentum—"_

Claire begins to twitch, her eyes start to glow and her mouth opens in a gape, revealing more of the light welling up from within. Jimmy can hardly see it—it's as though it's too bright for him to handle—but he can't look away, can't tear his eyes from the glow even though he feels it starting to burn in the back of his head and Claire's grip is loosening—

"Get down!" Jimmy's tackled to the ground, face-first, and he hears Claire stumble as the light grows brighter, the voice still chanting near the door firm and unrelenting. A hand fumbles messily across Jimmy's face, clamping tight over his eyes.

"—_domine expoet__, d__omine expoet__, h__odie abba tempere__—" _Claire shrieks from somewhere above him, there's a rattling of everything in the room as _something _swirls around in it, and then, in another moment—it all stops. The boy pinning him to the floor jumps off him, and Jimmy sits up dazedly, blinking away the spots in his vision. He focuses, sees someone in a leather jacket bent over his niece's prone body and then, suddenly, he surges into action, every protective instinct in him making him grab the man's jacket—

"Hey!" —and pull him off, and despite his shaking legs he half-crouches before Claire's prone body with wild eyes while brandishing the TV remote.

The boy raises his eyebrows at him, lifting both hands by his head, palms out, in a show of surrender. But there's a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth, and Jimmy bites his lip, nervous upon seeing the gun in the boy's left hand, not sure what to expect.

"What're you gonna do with that, huh? Adjust my color balance?" Belatedly, Jimmy realizes what his idea of 'defense' includes and, frustrated, he just chucks the remote at that grinning face. The boy laughs as he dodges, keeping one hand up as he makes his way around Jimmy's defensive stance—giving him a wide berth—eyes staying on him, steady and sure, his mouth pulled into a crooked smile.

"Woah there, tiger, I'm not gonna hurt anyone, okay? I just wanna check on her." Jimmy tenses, and the boy slows, joker's smile disappearing. "I'm just gonna check on her, I promise." He sets his gun down, and takes out a device with bulbs all along the top from his jacket's inner pocket, turning it on and nodding slightly as it hums on the low end. "Good, good." He mutters, and Jimmy's about to ask what it means, but a gruff voice makes him jerk his gaze upward.

"You a'ight, boy?" Under the shadow of the trucker's cap, a pair of kind eyes regards him. Jimmy feels his mouth twitch into an aborted smile, and then it falls as his mind catches up. He grasps onto the man's arm with a cry, voice returning with a vengence.

"W-What was that? What happened? What about Claire, is she—what—" The man claps him on the back, hard enough to stop Jimmy's stuttering, and smiles at him kindly, eyes crinkling up at the corners.

"Don't worry, the little one'll be fine, with that angel outta her." Jimmy's mind boggles, and his first thought stumbles out of his mouth as—

"A-_Angel?_ But—that's impossible, they're just stories, and—"

"And one of 'em jumped right outta those stories and inta the little missy, there." The man gestures at Claire, and Jimmy finds his gaze drawn inexorably back to her slack face. The boy looks up from his device, and gives Jimmy a small, reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, though." That smile morphs into another grin as the boy hoists himself up to a standing position, extending a hand to help pull Jimmy up, as well. "We'll give you some stuff to keep 'em away. I'm Dean, and this is Bobby." Jimmy stares at his hand, for a moment, then accepts.

"Jimmy. Jimmy Novak."

_-__Anno Domini 2,004, Tuesday Night__-_

"And that should about cover it." Dean finished writing off the last sigil with a satisfied flourish, looking over the paper before handing it back to Jimmy, who let his eyes scan the diagrams and spells scattered over it. His eyebrows screwed together at some of the words, though.

"Wait. Dean, how do you pronounce this?" The other boy made a curious noise, leaning over by Jimmy's shoulder to see.

"Huh? Where?" Jimmy's index finger prodded at one line in the mess of chickenscratch.

"Here. The Latin I get, but—"

"Oh, that's Enochian! The 'language of magic~'" Dean winked, wriggling his fingers 'magically', and Jimmy grinned in response, shoving his shoulder.

"Sure, sure. But how do I say this?" Jimmy pointed to one short phrase, _Pizin noco iad_.

"P-zorian noh-koh eeyah-deh." Dean rattled off, smirking a bit when Jimmy shot him a _look _as he scribbled down the pronunciation beside it_. _"What? It's not my fault I've been learning this stuff since I was a kid."

"Right. And these'll really help?" Jimmy motioned skeptically, curled fingers indicating both the so-called 'hex bags' as well as the paper in his other hand. Dean huffed at him, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What, you don't trust us? They'll work. These are really just for angels, but—" Jimmy peered over at him, suspicious.

"'Just for angels'? What else is there?" Dean's good-natured expression fell, to that, and he looked away, grabbing the book and his bag.

"Trust me, you don't wanna know." Jimmy frowned, but let it be.

"Well, how long will you guys be in town?" Dean blinked, looking up at him in surprise.

"H-Huh?" Jimmy scowled at him, impatient.

"I can't let you go saving Claire's life and not thank you, somehow." He could've sworn Dean pinked a little, but he was quick to dismiss it, laughing and waving a hand at Jimmy, palm out.

"Oh! Oh, nononono—See it's just part of the job, me 'n Bobby are used to it." Dean quirked another smile, turning to head for the door, but Jimmy only found himself more irritated at the refusal. He stood, following Dean and grabbing his wrist just before it found the handle.

"I insist." He stated, firmly, blue eyes earnest and determined on Dean's green ones. "We Novaks don't accept charity. We pay back our debts." Dean blinked at him, staring for another moment before slowly starting to smile, again. He turned his wrist easily out of Jimmy's grip, grabbing his hand and shaking it.

"Yeah, all right." Jimmy relaxed, relieved, and took a step back as they shook, an answering smile peeking out.

"Good! How about Thursday? Will you guys still be in town?" Dean nodded, grinning a little.

"Yeah! We're on the trail of a—" Dean cut himself off as he saw Jimmy's attention perk, and shook his head, laughing softly to himself and shoving the younger boy's arm, eyes narrowed playfully. "Incorrigible, dude. We're huntin' somethin', and it's gonna die. That's all you need to know." His tone was firm, and Jimmy huffed, grabbing Dean's shoulder and pushing him out the door.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up, I don't care. Just meet me here at six."

It was lucky Amelia had always insisted Jimmy save up the money from his own part-time job. Granted, it wasn't much, but he at least had enough for three dinners at the small diner nearby.

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 2,004, Thursday Evening__-_

Bobby watched over his menu as Dean joked with Jimmy across the table. He was grinning, gesturing wildly with the charm on full-blast, but Jimmy wasn't buying any of it. He was still having fun, though, if the way he was smiling was any indication. Bobby guessed Jimmy didn't have many friends, either. Probably a sheltered kid.

"You're full of it!"

"No, no really! In this one town they actually had a goddamned _curfew_—and—oh, sorry man." Dean blushed as he noticed Jimmy wincing at his language, and Bobby smirked a little on the inside.

_Sheltered kid, indeed. His parents are probably religious._

Bobby shook his head, putting down his menu and interrupting the awkward silence between the two teens.

"So, how's your sister?" Jimmy looked at him in confusion.

"Huh?" Bobby fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Your _sister. _Y'know, the kid who was _possessed_?" Jimmy actually looked uncomfortable as he looked away, rubbing his index finger over the handle of his fork, which still rested on the table.

"Um, Claire's—she'snutmhsstr." Bobby blinked, but Dean beat him to it.

"What? Dude, speak up." Jimmy lifted his head, his jaw set, and Bobby was a little surprised how determined he looked.

"She's not my sister." He stated quietly, if clearly, then glanced away again, with a frown. "She's my niece." Now Dean looked confused.

"Huh? But I thought you said your sister was only twe—" He cut himself off just as they both realized it. "Oh, uh." Dean cleared his throat. "Sorry, man, we just assumed—"

"I know. It's okay." Jimmy sighed, as though steeling himself, and then looked up at Dean again, obviously plastering on a reassuring (fake) smile. "Can we talk about something else?"

And so Dean took it upon himself to launch into another finely-spun tale of Americana, and Bobby could've sworn the whole table breathed a sigh of relief as the tension dispersed. At the end of the meal, Jimmy treated them to whatever dessert they wanted—Dean, typically, chose a slice of their famous rhubarb pie (no ice cream, as it was practically a _criminal_ addition when trying to appreciate the taste of the pie on its own—or so Dean claimed, anyway) while Bobby just had another cup of coffee. When the bill came he eyed it—Dean too wrapped up in devouring his generous slice—but Jimmy met his eyes with a fixed stare, taking the bill with a firm hand.

"Sir. This is my thank you for saving her. It's the least I can do." Bobby nodded, to that, raising his coffee cup for a sip, but he didn't miss how Jimmy pulled a few crumpled bills out of his pocket, carefully counting them and smoothing them out before placing them on the counter, under the bill. A second later, Dean's hand added a few bills, and when Jimmy looked up Dean was grinning, a loaded fork innocuously suspended before his mouth.

"You pay the bill, I get that. But you forgot the tip~" He then slurped the pie off its fork, and Jimmy blinked—but then his lips pursed as though he was angry about something, and his cheeks tinted pink as he looked away.

"I-I have enough to—" Dean smoothly cut over him, mouth still a bit full of his last bite as he speared another bit of rhubarb filling and crust with his fork and turned his full attention back to his dessert.

"Nah, 's okay. You look like you don't get out enough, so we'll call it even." Dean winked at him, then. "Besides, I liked our waitress, and greasing the wheels can't hurt." Jimmy looked at him as though he couldn't believe Dean had just said that, but then his face crumpled and he brought a hand up to hide his laughter.

"You—you're—" Dean grinned into his next bite, very obviously enjoying Jimmy's lack of composure.

"Awesome. I know~" Jimmy sent him an exasperated glance over his hand, and Bobby had to chuckle to himself. It was about time Dean had found himself a friend.

Afterwards—outside the diner, in the parking lot—the boys were a bit awkward around each other and Bobby rolled his eyes, clapping Dean on the shoulder and irreverently shattering the anxious atmosphere.

"Just give him yer phone number, y'idjit. Good friends are hard to come by." And then Bobby walked away towards his van, without looking back.

: : :

As Bobby left, Dean laughed—a little nervously—and Jimmy smiled at him. Dean watched him, then shaking his head and fumbling out a scrap of paper and pen from his pocket. He scribbled his cell number on it and held the scrap out to Jimmy, not quite looking at him.

"H-Here. Uh. In case anything happens, again. Or, you know. If you just want to, uh—" Jimmy snickered at him and Dean settled a glare on him, shoving his shoulder. "Hey! I'm tryin' to be nice here!"

"I know. But it doesn't suit you." Jimmy pointed out, earning a full-on pout that actually made him grin. He punched Dean in the arm, playfully. It felt a little awkward, but nice—in that 'wow I actually have a friend I can pretend to beat up' way. "Don't worry, I won't lose it." Dean huffed at him, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and turning away, muttering something that sounded like 'chick flick moment' under his breath. Jimmy rolled his eyes, leaning against the side of the diner as he watched Dean get in the car. Bobby started it up, then, and Jimmy looked on as they backed out, lifting one hand to wave at Dean in the passenger's seat as they pulled out onto the road. As he watched the truck diappear, Jimmy felt his smile fall along with his hand. After a moment, he quietly headed off to walk the few blocks home.

_-__Anno Domini 2,004, A Few Weeks Later__-_

It's not as though Jimmy _intended _to put off calling Dean. It's just, well, he didn't have many friends, and sure, he could get along well with people at first, but often they turned out to not really be trustworthy, and—l guess you could say Jimmy didn't have faith in his peers. Even at sixteen, they were all still kids, and although Dean was a few years older and possibly out of that phase—well, Dean's dad was actually _around. _Bobby was nice, and if it was a little odd that Dean called his dad by his first name, who was Jimmy to judge? Dean was so put-together, so ready to face the world, but all Jimmy was good for was watching Claire when Amelia went to work and being a punching bag at school. The other boys had developed faster than him, and it had started light—with just shoving and stuffing him into lockers—but soon that wasn't enough. They had started to fill out, started to bulk up, and since Jimmy stayed as scrawny as ever, he was a natural target. He'd be bruised for days, his mouth or an eye swollen and he'd come home and have to fend off Amelia's worried hands, sit down with a pack of ice and do his homework as she went to work. Usually, when he was like that, Claire played doctor with him.

And Jimmy meant to call Dean, he really did. But the more time went by, the more Jimmy thought that Dean had probably forgotten all about him, and the more he realized that what would a guy like _Dean_ want anything to do with _him? _Dean was everything Jimmy wasn't—tall, muscular, with well-defined face like a male model's so that Jimmy _knew_ he couldn't have any trouble getting a girlfriend. Amelia had a cell phone that she left at home when she went to work—they didn't have a landline, and it was actually cheaper this way—just in case there was an emergency and Jimmy had to call her or 911. And every time Jimmy sat by that phone with the small scrap of paper scrawled with Dean's number in his hand, he could only stare at it. He hadn't even put it in the phone, yet—scared that Amelia would find it, ask questions about who 'Dean' was, and that would lead to things he couldn't explain. Like how that 'angel'—or so Dean and Bobby had said—had possessed Claire. Some things were best just left alone, and Amelia had enough to deal with. He couldn't lie to her, and it wasn't like Claire remembered, anyway, so the best thing to do would be to pretend it never happened.

So one day—almost a month after Claire's 'angel' incident—Jimmy hears the cell ringing in their bedroom, just as Amelia's getting ready for work. He thinks nothing of it as she answers, figuring it's something to do with bills or rent, but after a few minutes she walks into the room and he looks up, sees her uniform buttoned up but the apron and nametag not on, hands on her hips and the phone in one of them obviously disconnected. Her face is suspicious, and he tenses.

"James Albert Novak." He swallows, attempting a smile and wondering what he's done.

"Y-Yes?" She holds the phone out in front of her, like she's pushing its existence into his face.

"Didn't I tell you not to give this number out?"

"I-I—Y-Yes, you did." He winces, fingers curling around his pencil as he drops his gaze back to his notebook, biting his lip. Amelia sounds more angry than disappointed.

"Well, can you tell me why someone from Mount Angel Pest Control called asking if we had considered changing services?" Jimmy swallows, again, breaking out in a cold sweat. He knew he'd never given this number out—and he won't tell Amelia, but he has a sneaking suspicion who called, based on the name of the company. Trying so hard not to lie, Jimmy shakes his head, remaining mute.

But _now _Amelia sounds disappointed, and Jimmy swallows past the lump in his throat, begging silently for forgiveness, his eyes glued to his notebook, the knuckles around his pencil white.

"Jimmy. I put us on the 'Do Not Call' list years ago. Suddenly we get a telemarketing call? Did you give out our number?" Amelia sounds a bit gentler—perhaps realizing how her being angry at him upsets Jimmy. But for this, at least, Jimmy can tell the truth. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly and forcing himself to calm down. He didn't do anything wrong. He shouldn't be nervous.

"N-No, Amelia." He looks up at her, then, blue eyes fraught with equal amounts anxiety and honesty. "I didn't give our number out. I know we can't afford to go over our minutes." Jimmy attempts a smile, and Amelia's expression softens. She walks over and ruffles his hair, the question disappearing from her eyes. It's replaced by faith—her belief that Jimmy's telling her the whole truth—and he feels something twist in his gut.

"Okay, Jim. Calm down. Guess it was just a fluke." He nods, focusing back on his schoolwork and listens to her footsteps fade away into the next room. Jimmy can barely concentrate over the next twenty minutes as Amelia puts an eye-rubbing Claire down for bed (after a story, of course), hugs him and heads off for her late (starts at eight and goes until two in the morning) shift at the diner down the street. After the door closes and he hears her lock it, Jimmy waits five more minutes before dashing into their bedroom and grabbing the phone off the battered bedside table they got at a yard sale for five bucks. He chances a glance at Claire—no, she's fast asleep, completely out of it in the way only kids can be.

(Thankfully, the sleeping schedule they have Claire on means that she'll stay asleep until between six and eight in the morning. Jimmy will be up by six—to shower and get himself breakfast—and Amelia's alarm is set for eight, aiming for a solid six hours of sleep after she collapses into bed. If Claire's up by the time Jimmy heads out to the bus stop at seven-ten, he'll wake Amelia up to watch her. Amelia will be able to shower and maybe even doze a bit during Claire's two-hour nap, and Jimmy will have a few hours of free time after school lets out at three. He's always home by seven, though, so Amelia can put Claire to bed and leave for work by seven-fifty. Then the cycle will repeat.)

Jimmy rushes out of the room, fumbling in his pocket as the other grips the phone and he's got that crumpled scrap of paper in his hand by the time he's sitting on the floor, in front of the couch. He unlocks the screen, navigates to the 'Recieved Calls' section and he feels a chill when the numbers match. Glancing behind him at the door—due to the irrational feeling that Amelia will come home any second—Jimmy takes a deep breath. He has to handle this himself, because he can't risk Amelia finding out. He can always delete the number afterwards, right? A few extra minutes shouldn't be noticeable on their plan, and they don't use many, anyway, so—

Jimmy's thumb presses the 'Call' button. As he puts it to his ear, he can hear it ringing. He swallows as a gruff voice picks up.

"_Kayser."_ It doesn't sound like Dean at all, but—

"Mr. Bobby?" There is a pause, and that voice grows suspicious.

"_Who is this? How did you get this number?"_ Jimmy licks his lips, nervously, and coughs, trying to summon his courage.

"J-Jimmy Novak, sir." Bobby grumbles under his breath, cutting him off and yelling away from the phone.

"_Dean! Git over here!"_ Jimmy hears a brush of static as Bobby's hand probably covers the phone, then silence, then, a few seconds later a breathless—

"_Jimmy? Hey, buddy! Sorry I called earlier, I just—"_

"That was my _sister, _Dean! You can't just call here! Amelia doesn't know about what—" Jimmy takes another breath, trying to calm himself. _Yelling won't solve anything._ Dean cuts in.

"_Hey, don't yell at __**me**__! I haven't heard from you in a __**month**__, dude, what's up with that?"_ Jimmy can feel anger welling up within him, but he keeps his voice to a hiss, not wanting anything to attract the attention of his stoned parents.

"_Dean. _We barely know each other! And you can't just _call_—how did you get our number, anyway?" Jimmy's voice turns from exasperated to angry as he realizes that, _yes, _that's part of the problem, here! There is an awkward pause, and Dean's voice sounds a bit contrite, if defensive.

"_W-Well, that's what we do. I just had to look up your sister's name and address, and it gave me a phone number!"_ Jimmy's gut goes cold, stealing the breath from his lungs and his next comment is a whisper.

"You… Are you—a—?" Dean immediately springs to his own defense.

"_Dude, don't jump to conclusions! I just—" _Jimmy's mind is working fast, now, processing all the implications of Dean having access to such information, and of Bobby answering with a fake name—

_Dean probably has them, too. Oh God, what have I gotten myself into? They're probably criminals! _

"—_it's not as though I lied to you, man, and I—"_

"Dean." Jimmy works to keep his voice calm. "I-I think it would be best if you don't contact me again." Dean continues to talk, but Jimmy doesn't hear him, too distracted by his mind whirling with worry.

"_Hey, c'mon—it's not like—you know what we do! We hunt things, remember? Sometimes… Sometimes that means we have to lie. But I didn't lie to you, I swear! I just—forgot to mention it. But we're really on the level, honest. We won't hurt you or your family, I just thought that, maybe—" _The Novaks don't need this—they're already treading on thin ice, barely keeping their parents' addictions under the government radar so they don't lose their father's check, and this—this is too much.

"—_maybe, we could be friends?"_ Jimmy catches Dean's closing comment, and softens his voice. He feels bad, because maybe Dean _isn't _as together as he'd been thinking, and maybe he _does_ just want a friend, but—Jimmy can't. This is too big for him, and Amelia doesn't need Jimmy mixing himself up with potential-criminal types.

"I'll always be grateful for what you did for Claire, and I'll remember everything you taught me to keep us safe, but—I-I really don't think it's a good idea if we keep in contact." He winces, to himself—yes, Dean had seemed nice, but there are too many other factors coming into play. He knows it could go from bad to worse _very_ fast. He can't. Even if it had been fun to think that he had a friend, somewhere—Jimmy just _can't. _For the sake of his family, for Amelia, for Claire's future—it doesn't matter what he wants. And then he hears Dean, his voice a little choked, even though he's trying to sound like he's joking.

"_H-Hey, that isn't fair, I—" _Jimmy shakes his head although Dean can't see it, voice quiet.

"No, Dean. I, um, I'm hanging up now. Please don't call again. Good-bye." Jimmy presses the 'End Call' button and pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at it. After a moment he scrolls into the 'Dialed Calls' screen and deletes the call he's just made from the phone's memory. He feels guilty doing it, but he can't do anything else if he doesn't want Amelia asking questions. He tosses the phone onto the couch behind him and stands, moving to shred that scrap of paper over the nearest trashcan. He hasn't copied it down anywhere else.

Jimmy feels like a jerk as he stares down at the shreds, but it's for the best.

~END CHAPTER ONE~


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 2/24

Word Count: 9,091

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Bobby, Winchesters, Novaks, Castiel, Metatron, Beëlzebub, Adam Young

Warning(s): Spoilers for end of GO, language.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, June 15, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_2 Corinthians 6:15 _

_What accord has Christ with Belial? Or what portion does a believer share with an unbeliever?_

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 2,004__-_

Bobby is in the kitchen as he hears Dean's call end—well the boy stops talking, anyway. It didn't sound good, and sure enough Dean's face is blank when he walks back in. He sets Bobby's cell on the kitchen table, and Bobby pulls out a beer and a Coke from the fridge, sitting down across from him and twisting off the top of his drink. Dean just sits, staring at the tiled floor, his pop untouched. Bobby lets him sit in silence long enough that the can starts shedding condensation.

"Seemed like a nice kid." At that, Dean blinks out of it and nods, injecting a fake laugh into the air with a half-grin to complete the mask as he nonchalantly grabs his Coke and pops the tab.

"Heh, yeah. Normal kid, y'know? Normal life, no room for anything superna—"

"Now you don't _start_ with that sorry speech a' yours, son, or I'mma slap you silly." Dean gives him a startled look, and Bobby frowns, leaning over the table with his weight on a bent elbow and pointing his beer at him.

"Just 'cause the kid don't want to be friends don't mean you're not worth it, boy." Dean smile is macho but fake, and he shakes his head.

"Nah, Bobby. I'm just not cut out for friends, you know that." Dean takes a long glug of his pop, and the words only confirm what Bobby already thought—that the boy's gone and ignored his advice. _Again._

_ Damn it, John, how many complexes did you __**give**__ this poor kid?_

Bobby sighs, leaning back and downing another mouthful of beer. He'll give up, for now.

"Did'ja hear 'bout Sam's grades? They came in, earlier this week." At mention of his brother, Dean immediately brightens. He'd been out of town on a light hunting job that Bobby couldn't take because of the garage suffering a sudden deluge of customers. Dean leans forward, voice eager for good news.

"Yeah? How'd he do?"

_-__Anno Domini 1,991__-_

Bobby knew Dean hadn't had an easy life. Sammy's had had a rough beginning, but the one he was really worried about was Dean. After Mary died in that botched burglary, her stomach sliced open and spilling her intestines onto Sammy's nursery floor, John had gone a bit revenge-crazy. He left the—'useless and vulnerable' (as John'd put it)—baby Sammy with Missouri Mosely and dragged six-year-old Dean with him on a wild goose chase all over the country. John swore the man who'd done it was a demon, kept disappearing and reappearing everywhere, breaking into nurseries and murdering mothers of young children in some sick Satanic rite—he was sure of it. Bobby called, but it mostly got sent to voicemail. Sometimes Dean would call him—always when John was asleep or out. One thing Bobby gave John credit for, was he always kept Dean out of the really dangerous missions. Sure, he exposed the kid to more than any kid should have to handle, but at least it was something.

_-__Anno Domini 1,994__-_

Then, three years later, that old Impala sputtered into the driveway and Bobby was already halfway down the walk when Dean stumbled out of the driver's seat, white as a ghost. Bobby wanted to brain John for letting his nine-year-old fucking _drive_, but then he noticed Dean's shirt was covered in blood. Bobby's mind switched modes instantly and he hurriedly checked the boy for injuries while Dean choked out as many answers as he could.

"D-Dad—shtriga—i-it—" Bobby's blood froze, and he lunged over the driver's seat, grabbing a fistful of John's jacket from where he sat in the passenger's seat and shaking him, voice a growl.

"John! John, you goddamned son of a bitch, you better not have used _Dean_ as bait for some lifeforce-sucking pedophile!" All that answered him was a pained groan, signalling John was at least unconscious, and then Bobby was aware of small hands tugging on the back of his shirt, trying to pull him off. Dean sounded like he was fighting not to cry.

"B-Bobby! It—it knew he was there, and it was c-coming and Dad shot at it but it dodged, a-and I couldn't do an-anything—" Dean started to hyperventilate, his eyes wide and scared and Bobby quickly turned around, pulling the poor kid to his chest in a hug and rubbing his hair.

"Shhh, shh—son, it's all right, it's okay, you're safe now—" Dean just gave up and clung to him, little-boy arms tight around his midsection as he hiccoughed into his shirt. To Bobby, this wasn't right. John shouldn't be treating Dean like a soldier, he should be treating him like a _son_. Hell, Sammy was a toddler living with an old friend back in Lawrence, with no idea what his brother or father were like—because Bobby was willing to bet John had never paid Missouri a visit since dumping Sammy on her doorstep—and Dean? Dean was being forced to grow up far too fast. How were these kids ever going to have a normal life? It was then Bobby knew—even if it wasn't his place, even if John would snarl at him for it—he had to try. These kids deserved better than the negligent and dysfunctional upbringing John was giving them. By God, Bobby was going to give these boys a chance at some normalcy, whether their father liked it or not.

_-__Anno Domini 1,995__-_

One year later, John was killed in a face-off with a reaper plaguing a hospital in Jefferson City, Missouri. Something weird had been going on in the town—there were a number of unexplainable, strange deaths, all with family members related to the same hospital—and John had called Bobby for some backup information before they went in. Three hours later Bobby's phone rang again, and it was the hospital. They told him they'd found a young boy sitting beside a collapsed older man in a back hallway—just staring at him—and that the boy wouldn't talk. The man's identification said he was Aaron Roadly, and named Robert Singer as his next of kin. Bobby took a deep breath, told the staff he was on his way, and made it from Sioux Falls to Jefferson City in just under eight hours. As he was passing along the Kansas-Missouri border on 29 South, Bobby thought of Sammy—four years old, now, no memory of his father or mother and his only living relative being ten-year-old Dean.

_These boys' lives are so messed up._ Bobby shook his head.

After picking up Dean and John's body—and beating a narrow escape from Child Welfare—Bobby drove by Missouri's and stopped in to see her and Sammy. The brothers stared at each other for a few moments—well, at least Dean knew who Sammy _was_, although Bobby couldn't say the same for—

"Dean!" Sammy's eyes lit up in recognition, suddenly, and he launched himself at Dean, laughing and hugging his waist. Dean seemed to visibly relax, even smile a little, and he leaned down with a whisper—to Bobby's great surprise, as Dean hadn't said a word since Jefferson City—hugging the toddler just as tight.

"Sammy."

_Well_,_ maybe I'm not the only one Dean's been calling._

_ (There might be hope for these boys, yet.)_

_-__Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004__-_

So, Bobby took over caring for both the boys, gruffly thanked Missouri for taking care of Sam for so long, and brought them up to South Dakota to live with him. With the help of Sheriff Mills, Bobby also got Sammy into a nice preschool class and started Dean at the local elementary school. Sammy took to school like a drunkard to whiskey, and started to warm up to Sheriff Mills after being in the car with her every day when she brought him home. He still missed Missouri, though (it made sense, as she'd essentially been his mother his entire life), so Bobby would let him call her once a week, when they had time. The Sheriff came around more and more often, and Bobby let her, noticing that the heaviness in her eyes that'd been there since she lost her young son and husband in that car crash wasn't as bad around the boys. After a few months, she chided him to stop calling her 'Sheriff' and use her 'goddamn name', Jody.

They were a weird family, it was true, but they stuck together and that's what counted. Bobby was cautiously surprised to realize that being a father wasn't quite as easy a job to mess up, as long as you tried—which neither John nor his father had, apparently. It made him feel that bit better, even if he wished he could've shared all this with Karen. But, as it turned out, Bobby was a better father when he was forced into it, so maybe he never _could've_ had this with Karen. And it made something in him ache to realize that, but he always convinced himself that raising these boys would have been what Karen wanted him to do—whether or not she was around to be their mother.

Dean didn't do so well at school. It wasn't that we was stupid (couldn't be, when he started quoting freaking _Vonnegut_ out of the blue, one day), but he was years behind his classmates, having never been formally schooled—_damn John, God rest his soul, dragging him all over the country, that's no way to raise a well-adjusted kid—_and Bobby knew it. Dean did make a valiant try for about two weeks, but after that he was so embarrassed about being labeled a 'dumb kid' and being in the special ed class that he ended up pleading for Bobby to take him on hunts. Bobby shook his head and tried to be a good parent, tried to convince Dean to keep trying at school—but Dean just became more and more miserable, even if he tried to hide it from Sammy, so Sammy wouldn't get discouraged. At last Dean just started refusing to come out of his room in the morning, and Jody suggested Bobby get Dean interested in something outside of school.

Well, the boy'd always liked cars, so Bobby started there. Usually when he was tinkering around in the back shop, Dean would be at his window, watching him work. After a few weeks of worse-and-then-worser at school, Bobby looked up and griped at him.

"If yer just gonna watch, you won't learn anythin'! Get down here!" And Dean had stared, wide-eyed, but then he quickly disappeared from the window and in two minutes he was on the other side of the car Bobby'd been working on, out of breath and back straight, arms pinned at his sides like a soldier's.

"Y-Yes, sir!" Bobby frowned on the inside—that was John's training peeking out, obviously—but let it go and just bent over the exposed hood, motioning for Dean to join him.

"Now, this is the engine, and these're—" Bobby walked him through the basics of how a car runs, and was surprised when Dean already knew quite a bit. Bobby actually smiled a little at the thought John had maybe taught Dean about cars. (It made sense, as that was how Bobby and John had first met, through the mechanic trade, but it was more that this was proof of John acting like a _father_, and that made him relieved in a way he couldn't name.) But Dean still soaked up all the new information with rapt attention, fingers reaching out of their own accord to poke (carefully, almost reverently, Bobby noted) around the insides of the car.

Prodded by Jody (who'd also noticed Dean's interest), Bobby dragged the Impala out (they'd towed it back with them from Jefferson City) from the barn, and they gave her a full tune-up. John had taken excellent care of her, but Dean's jaw was firmly set as he and Bobby worked on the old girl. The days went by, and slowly Dean started talking about his father. Bobby stayed silent, let the kid rant out his frustration, let him get it _out._ So at least Dean was talking about John, now. That was better. Even despite this, Dean's grades didn't improve. Soon enough Dean had dropped out entirely, spending his days under the hood or with Bobby on a hunt. Bobby would've liked to try to force the kid into more education, but it was clear that John'd raised him a hunter—to follow orders and kill things—and that Dean couldn't cope with his 'far-too-normal' peers. Dean didn't begrudge Sammy that, though—if anything, he encouraged Sammy to keep up with his studies, to keep going, keep trying, and emphasized the importance of an education. Bobby realized, softly, that that was what _he'd_ told Dean. So maybe Dean knew he wasn't cut out for the normal life, but he knew that if you had a chance at such a life, education was important, so he pushed Sammy into that. Bobby almost shook his head, at that. Little brat was more sensitive than how macho he liked to appear.

So, the years passed, Sammy studied (and hunted in the summers, when he couldn't be persuaded elsewise), Bobby and Dean worked on the cars and hunted, and Jody stayed with Sammy when he was left at home alone because Bobby and Dean had to drive out-of-state for a job. And before Bobby knew it, nine years had passed. Now Sammy—or _Sam_, as he preferred, now—was a thirteen-year-old honor-rolling high schooler while nineteen-year-old Dean played the casanova (but only when he felt like it—which, given the hormones, was _much_ too often_)_. But neither of the boys seemed about to go off the deep end, and Jody's eyes were soft when she grinned at him and kissed his cheek as he and Dean left on another hunt, whispering that the boys were _happy_, that was all, and to just enjoy it.

But Bobby_ knew _Dean didn't have any friends, and that just wasn't right.

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 2,005__- _

Dean _doesn't_ call again. Jimmy is moreso relieved and a little sad, but he pushes that away. The rest of his sixteenth year isn't nearly as eventful as the day Claire was possessed, but he prefers that, anyway. His nightmares—every night, now, and the unmistakable sounds of war have been added to the still-blank landscapes he dreams of—and headaches are the only things that've gotten worse. There is a plus to him getting older, though, because just in time for his seventeeth birthday, Jimmy's beard starts to come in. It's really only peach fuzz, but for a present Amelia gives him a bag of razors and some shaving cream from the corner store. Claire presents him with a handmade card from her kindergarten class, her smile bright and he returns it with a hug.

That night, Jimmy has no nightmares, but when he wakes up he finds he isn't hungry. He grabs an apple, anyway, stuffing it in his backpack and making doubly sure he has money for lunch. By lunchtime he's famished, and it seems like the tray in front of him has too little food to slake his appetite. But Jimmy understands doing things in moderation, so he keeps himself from going up to get a second lunch. (He doesn't have the money for another, anyway.) He returns home and they eat dinner together as usual, his appetite normal. But that night, for the first time, Jimmy sees the ground of his landscapes stained red. He just stares at it for a moment, then looks up into the sky. All he can see is white light, and he doesn't understand why this dream is different than the others.

By the time he wakes up, he's forgotten all about it.

The weeks pass, and Jimmy's appetite continues to fluctuate. Some days he'll wake up hungry, others he won't get hungry until lunch, and sometimes he'll not eat anything until dinner. For the first three weeks, he realized that he would want to eat double at lunch if he ate nothing at breakfast, and then eat dinner as usual, and then not be hungry at breakfast, again. The same would go for if he ate nothing at dinner, he'd want to eat double at breakfast. But soon enough this began to change, too. Jimmy would eat breakfast, then nothing for lunch, and he wouldn't be hungry again until breakfast the next day. Even then, he would eat a normal amount for breakfast—not like he hadn't eaten in a day, at all.

Jimmy'd expected to grow skinnier as he didn't eat as much, but that didn't happen, either. His body stayed the same, it kept developing as any healthy seventeen-year-old's body should, he just—didn't need to eat as much. But as time kept on, Jimmy started to realize that he'd only eat once every two days, then once every three days, then every four days—the lapses between meals were only getting longer. By the time he'd passed his eighteenth birthday and was approaching graduation, Jimmy was eating a slice of bread every two weeks. And there was something wrong with that, undoubtedly, but the truly odd part about this was that Jimmy didn't _seem_ like he was starving, at all. He just wasn't hungry. Amelia was worried he might be depressed, and told him to visit the school guidance counselor, but they still came up with nothing. Jimmy wasn't depressed, he was in perfect mental health, he just—didn't need to eat.

_-__Anno Domini 2,006, Spring__- _

People—teachers, mostly, and Amelia—said Jimmy was smart enough to get a complete scholarship to a good university, get a degree (or two), and graduate at the top of his class in 2009 (one year sooner than most). Perhaps they were right. After all, Jimmy never stumbled in any of his classes and always got particularly good marks in AP Psychology and AP English. But, given the rocky situation with his own life (and the changes he'd been dealing with), Jimmy got distracted. Oh, he still passed, got good marks and attended, but the addition of junior-year stress to his earlier woes led to Jimmy not applying for any of those good scholarships to good universities. He just didn't have the energy for more school, after the past few years (at least, that's what he _said _when Amelia went into parent-mode and scolded him for not even trying to get a good education).

A strange transformation had also overcome Jimmy, halfway through senior year. The nervousness and knowledge of being low on the food chain as a freshman or sophomore had been mollified by junior year, and _now_ he felt _confident._ The other boys had grown out of their bullying by the tail-end of junior year, when their girlfriends had found out. Senior year was a mecca for all underclassmen (it obviously didn't work if you hadn't been at the same high school for four years, though—in _that_ situation, the climb to popularity depended on your charisma and looks, alone). It was a never-ending cycle, and everyone would get to it, eventually.

Seniors were looked up to as sophisticated and put-together, not children anymore. The senior girls cast maternally disapproving looks at the freshman girls who dressed in tube tops and mini skirts, and sniffed at the freshman boys' middle-school-age pranks. The senior boys were outgoing and friendly, paying no mind to the barriers of the social order within the school, making friends with everyone and being known _by_ everyone. Jimmy was no exception. Their last week of classes, boys who'd shoved him into lockers in years past were dragging him around by an arm around his neck, their faces full of cheer and rambunctious enthusiasm. Jimmy couldn't help but grin and go along with it as their final days of compulsory school came to an end. Everyone was happy. Everyone was equal, in the class. No one looked down on anyone else, because they'd all just realized that they'd been through the last four years (or eight, or twelve, depending when people had moved in) _together_, and now all was forgiven. They were all comrades-in-arms, bright faces turned up to the shining future—because they all _had_ futures—with all the buoying fervor of youth-on-the-brink-of-adulthood. Right now everything was fine, and they were all there, holding hands against the waves of The Real World lapping at their ankles.

_-__Anno Domini 2,006, Autumn__- _

Six months after graduation, Jimmy's last morsel of food had been two months ago, his nightmares were getting slowly more vivid, and he'd started to have trouble sleeping. It wasn't the nightmares—or the fear of their content—which were keeping him up, either. Jimmy would lie in bed for hours, perfectly awake, and still be aware when Amelia stumbled into bed a little after two in the morning. Around then he'd fall asleep, and wake up four hours later, for work. He wouldn't feel tired in the afternoon the next day, either—so it wasn't like he was making up for the lack of sleep with a four-hour nap, or some such thing. Jimmy had started to feel scared when he couldn't fall asleep at the same time he'd gone to bed—ten at night—for years, but he'd dismissed it as stress due to the shift from student to adult. But it was still unnerving that nothing helped, and he could feel Amelia getting uneasy, too. He knew she was worried about him, and tried to force food on him as often as possible, but it didn't work. Food had essentially become as appetizing as rocks. It just held no appeal for him, anymore—and apparently sleep was soon to follow.

At first Jimmy thought he'd dedicate the time he wasn't sleeping to reading. But it was always the middle of the night, and when he'd sit down with a library book, visions started to creep in around the edges of his mind. Faces of people he didn't know would stare at him and every time he blinked he saw those same landscapes, only now he'd see flashes of steel as weapons slashed through the air. Jimmy wasn't watching it from far above, either. No, he was in the thick of things. There was a sword attached to his hand—gleaming metal, bright and unstained—and it moved as though of its own accord, Jimmy's invisible hand arcing it around gracefully as he advanced over the field. It was eerie. There were still the sounds of war, the sky was full of light and the ground was covered in red, and there were weapons clashing all around, but—other than the faces—Jimmy couldn't see the soldiers' bodies. He was a soldier, he had to be, because he was fighting alongside other soldiers.

After a few nights of this, Jimmy began to pick one voice out from the multitude. It wasn't even that it was that memorable, but he heard it the most often, so he supposed it was a soldier he was close to, someone always fighting alongside him. It shouted things in a strange language Jimmy didn't understand, even if he somehow knew the meaning, anyway. It was obvious his soldier friend was giving orders above the din, and Jimmy started to see the battle slowly take shape. Gleaming armor and white light shone from his side of the field, and he began to discern dark, hellish flames licking at the ground from the other side. Over time, these images became more detailed, and after a few months Jimmy could see wrought-iron armor on their adversaries. Some of their enemies had white wings, just like those on his side, and Jimmy found himself confused (not over the fact both sides had wings—it was a _dream_, after all—but over the mixed colors). Of their foes, those whose wings _weren't _completely white had feathers which were charred and blackened with soot. The heat of their armor was obvious even from this distance, as though it were imbued with fire. The substance it was made of continually shifted, as well—glowing red-hot where a gleaming sword made contact, as though concentrating strength to that area. Jimmy's own armor worked much the same, he realized. Gleaming silvery gold became brilliant with white light wherever a stroke of a weapon clanged against it.

Jimmy would come back to himself after these daydreams—or trances, whatever they were—and realize hours had passed and the sun was rising. He kept these visions to himself, even if he couldn't banish them when the sun set and the world went dark. But soon, even during the day, he'd hear echoes of that voice—a strong voice, full of conviction and courage—as it shouted its orders over the battlefield. Jimmy didn't know what it meant, but after all he'd gone through in the past year, a disembodied voice seemed to be the least of his worries.

But when it started talking to _him_, specifically, Jimmy knew it wasn't.

He was stocking shelves when it first happened.

_Jimmy. _Jimmy jerked, the back of his hand shoving boxes of cereal to the floor. He shook his head and bent down, fingers trembling slightly.

_No, I. I couldn't have heard that. _He nodded to himself, pushed it from his mind, and picked up two boxes, straightening.

_You did, Jimmy. _A prickle at the back of his mind made him shiver, and he shook his head again, concentrating on setting the boxes with ones that matched.

_No. I __**didn't**__. _He stated firmly to himself. _I am not going to start hearing voices just when things are starting to look up. So, __**no**__, whatever-part-of-my-subconscious you are, I __**didn't **__ hear __**anything**__._

Jimmy was rather satisfied when the voice didn't return.

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 1,988__-_

The Foretold Day for Heaven and Hell's War was approaching. Earth would be the battleground, of course. It would happen in two years. A great many of the Heavenly Host—captains, mostly—were sent to Earth, stationed there in the bodies of innocent, untainted fetuses whose bodies would, in 1990, grow to maturity at an astounding rate. These captains, after having been on Earth for two years, would have a sense of human culture and so be able to calm the masses. Being trained and unprideful leaders, they were therefore also authorized to administer sedation when necessary and collect humans of true faith and worth, if their superiors should require vessels.

Castiel was no different. Under orders from Aniel, his major, he flew to Earth and found an infant soul, heading to unite with its body. He followed it and gently guided it to Heaven, slipping himself into the fetus, instead. It was a tight adjustment to fit his Grace into such a tiny body, but—as he_ was_ an angel—Castiel only had to shrink and rearrange a few molecules to succeed. He was born as James Albert Novak, the child of Gwendolyn Florance Novak and Charles Franklin Novak. At the time of his birth, his only sibling—named Amelia Catherine Novak—was four years old.

_-__Anno Domini 1,990__-_

The Prophesized Day came. Castiel waited for orders. He felt the Metatron descend to Earth (England, specifically) in a lightning flash. He felt Beëlzebub ascend beside him amidst boiling asphalt. Castiel heard a demon present at the scene speak, and heard the demon commanded to be silent by Beëlzebub. The entire Heavenly Host (or, Host of Heaven) and the Fallen Legion (or, Legion of the Fallen) were silent, not daring to even fake a breath, lest it disrupt the fate of the world currently teetering precariously in a place called "Lower Tadfield." Metatron and Beëlzebub spoke to an eleven-year-old boy standing between them, the entire scene broadcast to the minds of all those of angel stock (which meant, everyone in both the Host _and_ the Legion). The eleven-year-old was the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness.

That eleven-year-old was The Antichrist, Lucifer's son, brought from Hell as a baby in 1979.

He introduced himself as Adam Young.

Adam Young pointed, and it was now that _everyone_ watching noticed the other angel present at the scene. The angel, looking rumpled in an overcoat, stood beside a demon with bright yellow eyes. They were _talking. _Nervously, yes, but like_ friends_. Castiel felt outrage pulse through the Host, and something almost akin to delight slice through the Legion.

Then Adam Young continued, and everyone couldn't help but _listen_. Metatron and Beëlzebub tried to interrupt, but couldn't, not against Adam Young. And then Metatron told the boy to look inside himself, to see what was in his very _genes _to do. It was the Great Plan, and it was in Adam Young's _blood _to want to destroy the world (or humanity, at least). And the boy hesitated as he felt the pull within him, and every demon and angel and human (only those present at the scene, and there _were_ a handful) felt the air charge with tension.

And then the other angel stepped forward, speaking up, his voice clear (and oddly, inescapably British).

"Excuse me. This Great Plan. This would be the _ineffable_ Plan, right?"

This angel proceeded to argue _semantics_ with Metatron. Castiel felt a ripple of amusement from the Legion and utter horror from the Host, but the angel remained stubbornly respectful as he argued his point—which was, whether the Great Plan _was_, in fact, an explicit part of the _ineffable_ Plan. Everyone watched as the demon standing beside the angel—not Beëlzebub, but the one with yellow, snake-like eyes—started to grin. The angel responded, voice still perfectly polite and undeterred despite Metatron's obvious and growing impatience. Then the _demon_, this time, interrupted Metatron, and Beëlzebub shouted down his subordinate, the Prince of Hell's voice buzzing like a nest of flies.

"It izz written!" The Legion was becoming decidedly less amused at this turn of events, Castiel noticed. All was still silent (as no one risked interrupting—or being heard over—the broadcast), but Castiel could still feel his Fallen brothers' and fellow angels' general opinions on the turn the conversation was taking.

"But it might be written differently somewhere else. Where you can't read it." The demon said.

"In bigger letters." The angel agreed.

"Underlined." They were adding to each other's statements.

"_Twice_." It was clear they knew each other _very _well. Castiel wondered over just how_ long_ they had been working with each other.

"Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world. It might be a test of you people, too. Hmm?" The demon finished off on a smug note. Metatron responded that God did not play games with His loyal servants, but he sounded worried, and the demon just laughed. There was silence, for a moment. Then Adam Young spoke, his voice inevitably gaining everyone's attention, and they had to listen. Castiel felt within this boy the power to destroy the entire Host and Legion with a thought. It was part of what kept both sides (including forcing Metatron and Beëlzebub to try and _reason_ with the boy, since they could not overpower him) so desperately paralyzed, he realized belatedly.

"I don't see why it matters what is written. Not when it's about people. It can always be crossed out."

And Castiel heard an unsettled Metatron and Beëlzebub concede, together, that they needed to seek further instructions. Castiel didn't know what to think as he felt the Voice of God and the Prince of Hell depart. Then he heard, along with the rest of the Host and the Legion, as the angel and demon spoke like old friends, relieved and ridiculous.

"Is it over, do you think?" The angel asked the demon. The demon shrugged.

"Not for us, I'm afraid."

Castiel and everyone else _knew_, in that moment, that those two knew they had been marked for Heaven's Rehabilitation Curriculum and Hell's Corruption Plan, respectively. [1]

_How imprudent of him, to fraternize with a demon. _Castiel thought to himself.

And then, abruptly _everyone_ was riveted to the image of Adam Young when he glanced at the two forbidden friends, voice clear and firm.

"I don't think you need to go worryin'. I know all about you two. Don't you worry." The Legion and the Host watched as Adam Young turned to look at _his_ friends—three other eleven-year-olds, looking a little shell-shocked and shaken. And then he spoke again, tone imbued with decisive power and resounding through their minds as a Voice.

"There's been too much messin' around anyway. But it seems to me everyone's goin' to be a lot happier if they forget about this. Not actually _forget_, just not remember exactly. An' then we can go home."

At that, the Host and the Legion and _everyone_—or, just about—stopped listening_._

They went home.

The next morning, Castiel felt a strange sensation that he'd missed something, but the more he thought about it, the more elusive it became. Eventually, he supposed, Heaven would contact him with his next orders. He was on Earth for the coming Apocalypse, after all. He realized, fuzzily, that the precise date had never been revealed to him, but it would be _coming_, he was sure of that. He only had to wait.

Later that year, Heaven clarified that the End of Days would occur on January 1, 2000. Castiel didn't question the order, merely settled down for another ten years or so until he would be needed in the War.

[1] The Legion's more powerful Fallen were seething with rage, intending to immediately recall their contaminated agent and make an example of him. The weaker demons were furiously clamoring, screeching advice for the upcoming torture and hoping to get a taste of it. (For they could all feel the weakness in the demon that had led to this atrocity. The demon had had his properly evil mindset bleached out of him, and been infected with _optimism_ and worse, _trust_.) By predictable contrast, the Host radiated stern disapproval and pity. The higher-level angels were determining that they must—only temporarily, of course—withdraw their confused brother from his station on Earth. He required a firm re-education, so as to never again make the mistake of keeping company with a demon. (And worse, it was_ friendship_. Innocent angels hid nothing from their fellow brothers—what would be the purpose, if they had nothing _to_ hide?—and this angel was calmly allowing his brothers to see _everything_. He was firm in his conviction, and plainly did not care it was a demon he believed he was friends with. That, of course, was the _problem_, and obvious proof of the poor angel's deplorable mental condition.)

: : :

Due to the amount of publicity generated in the human public sphere in the year 1999 (over fear of the Apocalypse happening—because of either computers or Jesus, depending on your sources), Uriel, Aniel, Michael, Raphael and Lucifer (the remaining Five of the Seven Archangels [2]) decided to move the date. They didn't want the humans prepared, after all. Therefore, January 1, 2000 passed without incident, the minds of the rest of the Heavenly Host and Fallen Legion were made to forget that the Foretold Date had passed, and the Apocalypse was moved to May 21, 2011. (It was based, this time, on the rapture prediction of an obscure man called Harold Camping. Heaven and Hell figured that, having been wrong twice before in 1994 and 1995, no one would take him seriously and they could carry out their long-expected fight in peace.)

Unfortunately, the public caught wind of the May 2011 prediction, and the humans were again thrown into a pre-apocalyptic panic. None of this would have swayed the Archangels (after the last frenzy over "Y2K"), but something else forced them to delay the date and re-alter the minds of their subordinates. Only Uriel, Michael, Raphael and Lucifer remembered that May 21, 2011 was the day the Archangel Aniel Descended to Earth. (Explained in human military terms, a Descent is to a Fall as MIA is to KIA.) There was a scrambling search for her, but when it proved fruitless, the Archangels decided to hush up the entire incident and try another apocalypse at a later date. The loss of Aniel—so well-versed in battle and such a popular leader among the lesser multitudes of angels—could not be completely covered up, however, and there was tension in the lower ranks that would take a few months to smooth out. After all these failed Raptures, the remaining Four Archangels' patience was wearing thin, and so the "final" date for the End of the World—now called "The Foretold Day of Michael and Lucifer's Final Battle"—was moved to December 21, 2012.

Sadly, in human affairs it soon came to light that this was _also_ the day the Mayan calendar predicted the End of the Fourth World, but by now Michael and Lucifer were chafing at the bit. The Archangels—Four of the accessible Six, anyway—agreed that they just didn't care about human awareness of the battle, anymore, and stubbornly decided for _this_ date to be "the one".

[2] Six of the original Seven Archangels yet lived. Gabriel was, of course, the Seventh (being the youngest), but he had Descended to Earth some centuries ago. The other Archangels sensed he was not dead, but none of his brothers knew—as Gabriel was no longer connected to Heaven—if he would have also felt Aniel's Descent.

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 1,994__- _

When Castiel was still young, there were no problems. Gwendolyn Novak doted on him. She always held him, carried him, and gazed at him with such adoration that Castiel began to suspect she was subconsciously siphoning off a small bit of his Grace—craving it, if you will. He felt many wounds within her, but paid them no mind—it was not his mission to heal them—and nothing changed until his first day of human school.

He was given strange looks for being so quiet. Castiel had never found the need to talk much, and so couldn't understand when his teacher gave him worried looks as he sat quietly at his desk, staring at the blackboard in thought while his schoolmates played outside. But Castiel ignored her, instead choosing to reflect on what he'd observed of the other children. Their behavior was different than his, and different than Amelia Novak's. Perhaps he was acting strange for his age? The thought crossed his mind, and Castiel frowned. How was he to stay hidden if he stood out? He must create a mask for himself.

And so, as he returned home that day, he created "Jimmy". It was an easy enough farce for an angel. Castiel merely had to combine qualities that the adults encouraged in children his age, adjust them properly to fit into his family structure, and then let his creation run on autopilot. It was an excellent solution, he thought. It would enable Castiel to rest, instead of being barraged with the needs of humanity on a daily basis. His body was young, and so he had gotten used to needing nourishment and sleep and visits to the bathroom, but it was all so distracting he worried he might forget his True Purpose. So Castiel curled quietly up in a corner of "Jimmy's" mind, wrapping his Grace around him as a shield for the persona he'd created. He slept for years, conserving his energy for the time to come. His Grace, Castiel knew, would protect his body from any harm, merely by the fact it was held within it. But his Grace was no longer obviously pouring outward—Gwendolyn could no longer feed off it, harmless as she had been, and Castiel would not be overly distracted by human concerns as he slept. The surface persona would keep him safely undercover.

_-__Anno Domini 2,003__- _

After "Jimmy's" fifteenth birthday, Castiel began to feel his abilities returning. He started to wake, slowly, and—as it happened more at night—took to running through ancient battles since "Jimmy" was resting and the amount of physical stimuli was lessened. Castiel analyzed and observed his previous strategies—what had worked and what hadn't. He shielded the actual scenes from his persona's dreams, of course, because they would undoubtedly, irreversibly change who he had crafted "Jimmy" to be. Such bloody fighting between the Heavenly Host and the Fallen Legion was not for mortal eyes.

_-__Annis Domini 2,004 ad 2,005__-_

As the years went on, Castiel noticed his Grace—likely due to his increased awareness—began to leak through, affecting the vessel. Castiel felt his persona's fear as the body needed to eat less, and quietly soothed the worries away so his mask would not break. "Jimmy" had no reason to fear, because he did not exist. It was all a mere after-effect of Castiel awakening from inside him, and it cost Castiel no moral quandary to think so—"Jimmy" was his creation, a simple, soulless personality he'd crafted out of a multitude of traits and motivations with no real person driving them. "Jimmy" wasn't human because he had never been human, and so it made perfect sense for Castiel to toss "Jimmy" away once he was no longer necessary.

_-__Anno Domini 2,006__-_

Castiel, however, still felt a lingering sense of duty to this persona, who had so effectively served as his mask for nearly twelve years. So, when Castiel felt strong enough to speak, he began to call to "Jimmy", ready to explain that he could rest, his duty was done and Castiel would take care of things from now on. Surprisingly, this seemed to be harder than Castiel had initially thought, because—and no one could have predicted _this_—"Jimmy" almost seemed to be _fighting_ to keep Castiel silent.

What was more worrying was that it was working, and Castiel was running out of time. He only had six years until the Apocalypse, and he had to begin to train himself for battle while in human form. This body had changed drastically from the child Castiel last remembered controlling. He was finding that the years he had been asleep made quite a few muscles bigger and stronger, and the changes would take some getting used to. The sooner Castiel started acclimating to his matured vessel, the better.

If only Jimmy would stop being so _difficult._

_-__Anno Domini 2,007__-_

After a long and futile year of mentally wrestling with Jimmy to listen to him, Castiel's patience had been exhausted. His solution was risky, but the only option left. It was now four years until the Apocalypse, and he had to be _ready._

Jimmy was sitting on the couch, reading. His thoughts were definitely distracted.

_Jimmy. _Castiel tried mentally, one last time. Jimmy shook his head, as though dislodging a fly, the mental barriers swelling stronger. The angel prepared himself, then quickly skirted _around _those barriers and flowed straight into the physical.

"_Jimmy." _Jimmy hadn't seemed to notice he'd spoken. Well, Castiel had only managed a whisper, anyway. Perhaps he needed to speak louder? He cleared his throat—unfamiliar with its use—and upped the volume.

"_**Jimmy**__!_" The book went flying, and Castiel felt Jimmy panic from within. The angel tried to soothe, but those mental barriers rose up, thick and hard, between them. Castiel firmly held his influence over the physical, however.

"_Jimmy, stop shutting us out. _Y-You're not real. You're just a voice—_Jimmy, I assure you I am much more than that." _Jimmy winced, and Castiel felt a little sorry for him, but he had a War to prepare for.

"_Jimmy. You need to give back control of this body. It is required for the War. _W-War? What War? I don't know what you're—_The Foretold War between Heaven and Hell. I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord and—_W-Wait, what, an **angel**_? _Like—oh, **God**—like the angel that possessed Claire, when she was four?"

Castiel felt Jimmy's thoughts turn to anger, and he forced Jimmy's right hand to close around his own throat, cutting off the rambling. Castiel felt Jimmy radiate silent fear, and he regretted being forced to use such violence. The hand loosened, allowing Castiel to speak.

"_Jimmy, the angels are on the side of God. We will win, but require the use of your body. _W-Why do you need **my **body? Why _**me**_? I'm just—_You were chosen before you were born, Jimmy. I have always been here, sleeping, and you have done well. Your mission is over. Be at peace, and rest." _Castiel exerted his Grace, billowing over the part of their mind that was Jimmy's, trying to gently lull him away from consciousness. But Jimmy fought, instead, surging against the lapping tide and crying out.

"N-No! _Jimmy— _**No**, I said! This is **my** body, Castiel, and I can't just **leave** Amelia and Claire to— _They will be safer if you leave._" Castiel felt Jimmy give pause, at that, and continued, voice low and gravelly.

"_Do you think no one will notice the amount of Grace it is taking for me to physically speak with you? If you had listened to me when I tried to speak in your mind, I could have remained undetected. Now, within the hour, demons will be swarming this place in search of you." _There was a shaky pause. Jimmy didn't respond, and Castiel felt the seconds ticking away. He hadn't lied—it was true, every word of it. If they left _now_, the demons would follow the trail of Castiel's Grace. But _only _if they left _right _now!

"_Jimmy— _W-Why." Castiel paused, listening. Jimmy seemed close to tears.

"Why do I have to leave _**now? **_Claire's only seven, and Amelia's finally started dating again, and it's not **fair** because we were finally starting to— _Jimmy, we realize this is hard." _Castiel didn't mention that Jimmy was only a creation of his. It would seem to be detrimental to the conversation if he didn't pretend Jimmy was an actual _being_ with an actual _soul_ (which Jimmy didn't have, of course—Castiel had seen to that, when he redirected the soul meant for Jimmy's body). It was all very inconvenient, but Castiel felt as though he couldn't do otherwise.

"No. You **don't **realize. They're my **family**, Castiel. I can't just— _Jimmy, if you do not make a choice, I will be forced make it for you. _W-What? Wait—" Castiel made a sound of pressured annoyance. He could already feel demons headed their way—zoning in on his active Grace. He did not have time to further explain.

"_I have been lenient with you, but now we cannot afford to wait. Demons are beginning to circle, and we must leave immediately so as not to compromise the safety of your family. _Wait, **no**—Castiel! **Please, **just let me leave a note, o-or_—" _Castiel shut his body's eyes, silently asking for forgiveness for not showing mercy. Not that Jimmy was human, really, but he was close enough that ignoring such heartfelt entreaties was very…_ difficult._

"_I am sorry_." Castiel took a breath, and did what he should have done a year ago. The angel let his Grace shoot outward and overwhelm Jimmy, seizing control of the body. Its back arched off the couch, engulfed in outpouring light as his wings furled out behind him, crashing into the lamps. He was airbourne a moment later and Castiel was so concentrated on getting _away _from Pontiac, Illinois, as fast as he could that he didn't notice as Jimmy managed to stutter something past the steel will of Castiel's control.

_"P-Pizin noco iad!"_ With a cry of pain, Castiel's wings buckled and he curled into himself, lips dripping blood as they careened downward. Lake Michigan welled up before his body's eyes and Castiel grunted, wings flapping jerkily as they spread out again, aiming to catch the air currents. The tips of his primary feathers skimmed the water's surface in a particularly strong downbeat, resulting in uneven splashes on either side, making him wobble. The angel focused on getting them to the land he could feel was nearby.

_Where did Jimmy __**learn**__ that phrase?_

Castiel's insides felt like they'd been punctured and half-ripped out, and he coughed up more blood as his sense of balance wavered, dipping the edge of one wing—down to the secondary feathers—under the lake's surface. It disrupted his momentum, caused him to spin in that direction and the angel felt briefly dizzy while the world flipped. Now he was facing the sky, shooting fast on his back just a few inches above the lake's surface. One wing was wet, useless and dragging in the water as the other grew steadily soaked from the spray, and Castiel went under as gravity finally won and pulled him beneath the sloshing waves.

After a struggle against both the water and the powerful weight of his own sodden wings, Castiel dragged himself onto a beach. He collapsed on his side, allowing the body to take great gulps of air, Jimmy's clothes drenched and covered in sand. His wings were sprawled in a messy array of white feathers from the back of the ripped shirt. He didn't sense any humans nearby—indeed, only plants and animals, and a large inland lake—and closed his eyes. He reached inside, to where he could feel Jimmy trembling.

_Jimmy._

_Castiel?_

_You will not speak aloud without permission. _He said this firmly, the words closing like a steel trap of truth. He couldn't afford to have Jimmy able to incapacitate him with a single sentence. It couldn't happen again. Jimmy sounded contrite, at least.

_I-I'm sorry. You just surprised me, and I—where are we, anyway? _Castiel sighed, and moved to sit up, spreading his wings up into the air before shaking out his feathers behind him, trying to get rid of most of the sand. The waves had been lapping at them, though, so it did no good—they were coated in wet sand. He tried to ignore the grainy feeling sandwiched between the layers of feathers. (Oh, but was it _unpleasant._)

_An island in Lake Michigan. _The angel paused, getting his bearings. _South Manitou Island._

_Oh. Um, are you— _Castiel interrupted him, voice low and decidedly critical.

_**Where**__ did you learn that phrase? The body almost drowned._

_I __**said **__I was __**sorry! **_Jimmy shot back, defensive. _I… learned it from a friend, a few years back._

Castiel was silent, for a moment. He stood, raking an impatient hand through his hair to clear the sand from it. He otherwise paid no mind to his unkempt state, staring gravely across the water, lost in thought. Jimmy piped up again, after a bit.

_Hey, I—uh, since I don't seem to have a choice… What is this War, anyway? Will it last long?_

Castiel detected a note of hope. He poked further and saw that the comment was connected to the memories of Amelia and Claire. Jimmy hoped he would see them, again. Castiel barely hesitated.

_It will last until it is over. _The angel stated, firmly avoiding lying or giving a real answer. He turned, heading inward to where he sensed the freshwater lake. It wasn't so much that he didn't want humans to see him (angels could render themselves invisible, of course), but Castiel's tactical experience made him prefer being out of the open. Besides, he had to clean his feathers, since he couldn't wish them clean. [3] More importantly, Castiel knew his next mission was to find his garrison, meet up with them on Earth and take his assigned role in the Apocalypse. He pictured them in his mind—their major, his fellow captain, their respective lieutenants, the outspoken officer cadet called Hester—and found his resolve strengthen. He had not seen them in nineteen years, but that was nothing to their kind. They would be waiting for him, he was sure of it, and Castiel could not disappoint his garrison. As a captain, they depended on him. The angel came at last to the end of the beach. Now, he began to clamber up the great perched sand dune which flanked the entire west coast of the island.

The whole way up toward the tree line, Castiel made sure he was still invisible. He tried not to think about how his wings _itched_, but couldn't help but beat them every few minutes or so, trying to dry the feathers as well as dislodge that accursed sand. Jimmy was quiet. Castiel did not seek to converse, thus leaving them both alone in the silence with their respective thoughts.

[3] Every angel's wings were part of their True Form, and they could no more wish their wings clean as they could wish their Grace, if pierced, into being whole again. This was the reason many angels preferred vessels on Earth, as their Grace (if they so wished it) could stop time for the body, resulting in a perpetually-clean human. Shielded in such a vessel, this resulted in the angel's True Form remaining untainted (so long as nothing pierced their Grace, of course). Wings, however, were another matter entirely. Wings required attention to remain functional—especially while moulting—and so roughly every year, angels would assemble in droves to groom each other. It was either this, or self-groom (which was much harder). Castiel preferred the latter, as it was not nearly as inconvenient as trying to remember when the Grooming Day was scheduled for, each year. Besides—with so many angels not at their usual posts, due to the mass grooming—he felt better doing something productive. (This was, of course, in the six-thousand years _before_ Castiel dropped into a human body. Due to being hidden—inactive—in Jimmy's body for nearly twenty years, his True Form had remained rather clean. _Now_, however—especially after all that sand and seawater—Castiel's wings could definitely use a good grooming. It was a shame he didn't really have the time to do anything more than clean them _just_ enough so he could fly, again.)

~END CHAPTER TWO~


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 3/24

Word Count: 13,365

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: The Seven Archangels, Guardian Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Serpent of Eden

Warning(s): Language, some violence, alcohol.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, July 6, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_2 Corinthians 7:06 _

_Though if I should wish to boast, I would not be a fool, for I would be speaking the truth; but I refrain from it, so that no one may think more of them than he sees in me or hears from me._

: : :

_-Anno 4,004 Ante Christum-_

It was the morning of the Eleventh Day, and all had not gone well in Heaven. On the Sixth Day God had created Man, and on the morning of the Ninth He had proclaimed that all angels were to bow down to Man, and love and revere him more than Himself. The second-youngest of the Seven Archangels, Lucifer, had visited Earth on the Tenth Day to observe Man, and had witnessed his Father's command for them to not eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. He had flown home in a state of great agitation, and his younger brother Gabriel and older brother Raphael had tried to calm him, but to no avail. No, Lucifer would not be detained. He strode up to their Father's throne and laid out his opinion before him, calling humans 'flawed creatures' not deserving of Father's divine attention and mercy. His brother Michael—who loved Lucifer the most—had chastised him, sharply, at that. Lucifer had snapped at him in return. Uriel, Aniel and Zaphiel—the three oldest Archangels—stood silently by, but their faces were sad. Lucifer resumed his tirade, calling the existence of Man and Woman a mistake, saying they would only ruin the gem of a planet over which they had been given dominion. He pleaded with Father that wouldn't the beautiful world He had created simply be better off without them?

At this, Zaphiel stepped forth, defending God's decision, saying that if Father had _meant_ to create Man and Woman with such supposed 'flaws', how could they truly be flaws? Lucifer had turned at him in anger, then—always the favorite, always used to getting his way—and Zaphiel felt the sad eyes of his elder siblings Uriel and Aniel upon him as they comforted the younger set of Raphael and Gabriel. Michael, Zaphiel knew, was standing alone to the side, riddled with pain over Lucifer's decision to speak out. It also burned Zaphiel's heart to argue with his brother, but he worried that Father might punish Lucifer if he did not rescind what he had said. Lucifer could still earn Forgiveness if he would only admit his err in judgment, Zaphiel pleaded, taking his brother's arm and looking into his eyes.

But Lucifer threw him off, shaking his head and spreading his wings out before Father, confidently imploring for permission to strike down the Man and the Woman living in the Garden of Eden, and stop them from spreading their disease across the Earth. Zaphiel stumbled back as a wave of righteous fury welled up from God, and they watched, helpless, as Michael was ordered to cast Lucifer—most-beloved, most-beautiful, the Morningstar—out of Heaven, and into the depths beneath the Earth. Other angels—who had foolishly loved Lucifer more than God—cried out in fury at this, and Father had Michael cast them down, as well. It was clear that an angel's existence required obediance, not emotion. This fact did not bother the other six Archangels, who were preoccupied with their sorrow and confusion as to why so many angels would agree with Lucifer. Afterwards, Father assigned angels to keep watch over the Garden, lest Lucifer still attempt, in some way, to bring harm to Man.

[ Uriel, the First Archangel, had been created on the Second Day, and had seen as the Land was divided from the Seas, on Earth. Aniel and Zaphiel had been created on the Third Day, as the barren Earth was sowed with seeds (but it had not yet rained, so none bloomed). Michael and Raphael had been created on the Fourth Day, as the Sun and Moon appeared in the sky. The youngest ones, Lucifer and Gabriel, had come with the Fifth Day, as all manner of birds took to the air and creatures swam in the sea. The Sixth Day, their Father blessed the Seven Archangels with titles befitting them and grounded in the Seven Heavenly Virtues. Also on this Day, He created beasts, Man and the multitudes of lesser angels. The Seventh Day was a day of rest, and on the Eighth Day He made the Garden of Eden.

Listed by age of creation, the original Seven Archangels embodying the Seven Heavenly Virtues were referred to by the following titles among their bretheren: Uriel the Pure (of Chastity), Aniel the Just (of Temperence), Zaphiel the Benign (of Charity), Michael the Dutiful (of Diligence), Raphael the Merciful (of Patience), Lucifer the Devoted (of Kindness) and Gabriel the Brave (of Humility). ]

_-Anno 4,004 Ante Christum, After Several Days-_

An angel stared out at the dusty wasteland surrounding the outer sides of Eden's Wall. He stood in the center of the Eastern Gate of the Garden, his sword unsheathed at his side, and felt a tingle in the back of his neck. He turned around, immediately enflaming it and narrowing his eyes at the stealthy figure draping in graceful loops over the wall. It seemed like a long, thick black line, uncoiling down over the stone (the stretching vines helped, undoubtedly), then dropping into the bushes at the foot of the Wall and slithering towards him. The angel's mouth tightened as he sensed tattered remains of Grace emanating from the creature, his hand calling the flaming sword to burn subtly hotter. Yellow eyes stared unblinkingly up at him from the ground as the creature stopped and the angel tensed, readying his sword to sever the creature's head, if necessary. The black thing—no arms or legs, how curious—rose up in the air, head bobbing slightly as it gained altitude. At knee-level, it hissed at him, revealing fangs, and the angel wasted no time in swinging his sword around. The creature retreated hastily, head again low to the ground as it hissed at him a second time, folds of its lengthy body rippling in on itself. The angel took a step towards it before his brow furrowed, shaking his head slightly as though to dislodge a peculiar thought.

_Ssssssstops! _

The angel glanced down at the creature curled up defensively just before the bushes at the foot of the Wall, and frowned. Vertically-slit yellow eyes bore up on him—almost beseechingly, almost accusingly—and the angel slowly advanced another step. The creature flailed in palpable fear as it retreated under the bushes, apparently not willing to leave completely.

_Sssssstops, sssstops!_

"Are you _speaking_ to me?" The angel asked, with some small measure of amusement, as the creature—Serpent, he vaguely recalled Adam naming it—turned back towards him, warily eying his sword from where its head rested, on the ground.

_Sssats dependssss. Sssshall you sssstrike me down, Guardian of sse Easssstern Gatesss?_

Well, no matter its tattered Grace, this Serpent certainly knew how to get on an angel's good side. Not that it swayed him to be addressed by his title, you understand. It merely showed a certain level of intelligence—something which he could always appreciate. With a thought, his sword's flame blinked out, and he re-sheathed it, squatting down before the creature and peering over his knees at it.

"Well, if you can talk, and don't intend me any harm, I don't see why I would." Impulsively (but cautiously), the angel reached out his hand. Yellow eyes watched him, the Serpent said nothing, and the angel felt the air charge with tension. He resolved to ignore it, simply smiling slightly and held that suspicious gaze as his fingertips moved that extra bit, just brushing the shiny black scales on the Serpent's side.

"Were you cast down with my brothers, then?" The Serpent started badly in shock—despite his kind tone—jerking away from the gentle touch. The angel watched impassively, umoving, as it fled into the shelter of the bushes circling the bottom of the Wall. There was silence. He continued to stare at the bush for a moment, then straightened and turned around, walking the few feet back to his post at the front of the Gate. A few minutes of feigned ignorance later, the angel sighed and glanced back at the bush, grey-blue eyes narrowing.

"It's not very polite to stare, you know." The bushes to the right of the Gate shifted, and out of the leaves surfaced the Serpent's black head, yellow eyes peering at him. Thanks to the plant's supporting branches, they were now at eye-level. The angel's face was stoic, his hand reaching out to stroke the top the Serpent's head, gently. It hissed at him, retreating out of sight into the vegetation, and the angel's unreadable expression broke as he chuckled.

"Now, now. I promise I shan't hurt you, is that better?"

_Like ssats meanssss anysssing. I sssee whats you Unfallen do stoo usssss._

That tone was accusing, and the angel frowned.

"So you _are_ a disciple of the Morningstar." That black head slinked out from under the leaves, the unblinking yellow stare watching him carefully.

_Buts you do nots ssssstrike?_

At this, finally, the angel withdrew his hand.

"You have not wronged me, and Father's punishment must be hard enough to bear." Yellow eyes flicked downward, and after a moment the Serpent stole back into the safety of the bush.

_Sssey ssssent me ups here stoo makess strouble. _There was a resounding sense in its tone that it disliked the paltry order, and the angel felt his lips twitch in an aborted smile as he nodded.

"I see. Well, I hope that goes well for you." An irriated hiss echoed from the innards of the bush, branches rustling as (the angel supposed) the Serpent's coils shifted along with the sentiment.

_Like Heaven itss will! Buts if it doesssn'ts, ssey'll have my ssssskin._

"Oh my, that must be horrible!" The angel was honestly shocked. That certainly wasn't how things were in Heaven, even with how bad things had gotten with poor Lucifer. Yellow eyes peered up at him, again, and the angel smiled awkwardly. He reached out to the bush again, palm up and fingers curled slightly in an unassuming gesture of peace.

"I'm sorry. I can't really know, can I?" More rustling, and the Serpent's head emerged a final time, a finger's length from his hand. Its mouth opened slightly, revealing fangs, and it hissed.

_Pray sssatss you never do._

It swayed closer, but the angel did not flinch. The Serpent's mouth snapped shut, head briefly rubbing at his palm, and the angel smiled at the trust inherent in the gesture. What might have been the Serpent's neck quickly wound around his wrist, then, causing that black head to bob closer. Grey-blue eyes met vertically-slit ones, each set quiet and firm. The Serpent let out another hiss after a while, looping down and around the angel's waist, then back up behind his neck. The angel forced himself not to stiffen as he felt moist air on his throat, the undulating folds of black snakeskin tightening around his pure body.

_Sse Unfallen know no fear, do sssey?_

"No." The angel said simply, moving casually as he allowed the squeeze around his abdomen, lifting a hand to run his palm over the thick coil around his waist. He felt the Serpent breathe.

_I could bitess you._

It was a statement full of anger, hurt and revenge, and the angel ached at the despair of it. The smile on his face was calm, subdued, but by contrast his voice was warm and sure.

"If it would ease your suffering, go ahead." The Serpent shuddered, and the angel felt it curve up the front of his neck and around behind his head, to flick its forked tongue in his ear. He twitched involuntarily, stifling a reflexive giggle at the sensation.

_You are a ssssstrange angel, Guardian of sse Easssstern Gatesss._

He smiled, and glanced up at the slitted yellow eyes almost boring a hole through him. The angel lifted his fingertips to stroke under the Serpent's jaw, chuckling kindly as its gaze half-lidded and it sank into the touch. What was more amazing was that—for all its threats—it _hadn't_ bitten him.

"And you, my dear, are a remarkable demon."

_-Anno 4,004 Ante Christum, One First Offense Later-_

As soon as he caught sight of the now-infamous black Serpent winding down over the Garden of Eden's Wall behind the Eastern Gate, the angel leaped up in fury, sword flashing out in full flame.

"Reviled Tempter!" The creature hastily dropped under the bushes at the foot of the Wall, for cover.

_Sssstops!_

The angel paid no heed, his sword making quick work of that cover as it set the leaves ablaze, blue eyes burning with righteous anger.

"Despicable Beast!" The Serpent hissed again, thrashing as the angel snagged its tail and dragged it out from the roasted remains of the bush, nasty burns seeping like steaming red oil over black scales. The creature turned and lunged, fangs bared, but the angel dodged the strike, cuffing the Serpent on the back of the head and burning a brand of the flat of his blade there. The creature turned at the speed of thought, to strike again, but the angel raised his sword, pure holy light exploding out from him. The Serpent recoiled instinctively from the all-emcompassing, searing brilliance, flailing madly in pain. It coiled into itself tightly, trying to escape from the fiercesome, radiant Presence which burned at its tattered Grace.

_Pleassssse—_

The angel's Voice boomed out.

"Serpent." Yellow eyes squinted up at him in supplication, and the holy glow receded a little, enough that the Serpent could at least see the angel's face. The creature shuddered at the steely lack of emotion, and prepared for death.

"Your attempts to exit at the other Gates have been foiled by my brothers, so now you come to me." The angel paused, and against the fogged-out greyscale of its vision the Serpent could see him lower his sword. The blade was now close enough to neatly cleave its head in twain. The Serpent hastily folded its layers in upon itself, scrambling back into broken, burnt twigs and ashes. The angel did not follow, at first.

"You deserve death." The angel took a step forward, and the Serpent hissed belligerently, but it was all-but-blinded when that light pulsed stronger, and was forced to duck and again hide its eyes in the safety of a black coil.

"You deserve Father's punishment." Another step, and the Serpent lashed out its tail, trying to trip him, hurt him, _something_. The tip burned to ash just a hand's distance from the angel's skin, and the Serpent retracted the stump, trembling in agony. The light blinked out, and the Serpent felt warm fingers brush the injury. Without thought, its fangs embedded themselves into the back of the angel's hand. Poison slid past perfect skin, and it slivered its eyes open, victorious in landing a blow before its imminent death. The angel was smiling—even if the expression was a bit strained—as his other arm came around, gathering up the injured Serpent and cradling it in his arms. His Voice was gone, replaced by gentle tones.

"My brother, the Guardian of the Western Gate, chastised you for dooming Man to death, but did nothing more than prevent you from leaving the Garden." The Serpent slowly released its fangs as its re-formed tail curled tentatively around one bright arm.

"My brother, the Guardian of the Northern Gate, nearly destroyed you in your second attempt to escape. So, you tricked him, and fled back the way you came." Angelic fingers slid along blistering burns, knitting scales back together.

"My brother, the Guardian of the Southern Gate, did not forgive you as he believes the Fallen to be below forgiveness. He did not harm you, but neither would he let you pass." There was a little jerk as the angel stumbled, his voice heavy, and the Serpent's folds tightened reflexively around him.

"And I, their brother, am Guardian of the Eastern Gate." The Serpent braced itself for a sudden lethal blow, but the next moment brought not death, but an arid breeze. Its tongue flicked out tentatively, noting the scents of dust and the desert. The creature opened its eyes, and realized they were flying. It wasn't for long, though, as a moment later the angel touched down in a forest clearing, glancing up at the droplets of rain that heralded the very first thunderstorm.

The Serpent swiveled its head around, and hissed in recognition, pressing back into the angel as the dirt-smeared faces of Adam and Eve froze fearfully at the sight of them. But instead of surrendering the creature, the angel let it glide out of his arms and onto the ground. Once there, the Serpent hurriedly slithered off into the brush, not about to question its good fortune. But (once safely out of the open) something made it pause. It then twisted a ways up the nearest tree and peered at the trio through the leaves, just close enough to hear. The angel's voice was soft.

"You are good people, who made a choice not to listen." Eve flinched, and Adam stepped in front of her, protective. She clung to his back, watching the angel over one of Adam's broad shoulders. The Serpent watched as the angel smiled, and extended his hands, fingers splayed open. For a moment, nothing moved. Then Adam stepped forward, taking one of the hands. Eve, still afraid, did not. The Serpent heard the angel murmur, clasping Adam's hand warmly between his palms.

"And yet—is it so horrible? You have disobeyed, been punished, but may continue to live on Earth and are not being driven Below. You can choose your own path, of your own will. You can _question _Our Father's commands without dire repercussions_._" The angel's voice was too hushed to sound only comforting. The Serpent thought it heard sorrow.

"You are indeed the most blessed of all His creations." The angel's hand went to his belt, and he withdrew the sword, gently inciting it to ignite. Adam's eyes widened in the flicker of the flame.

"Please, take this. It is cold, and it will rain."

The Serpent watched as Adam's hand closed around the hilt, and the angel smiled again, although it seemed pained, somehow. He leaned down, gracing a kiss of benediction on the Man's forehead. Eve's hands reached around Adam, grasping the angel's arms and pulling him closer, and he laughed a little (the Serpent would swear to it), gently enveloping the humans in a hug with his long, strong arms. The angel whispered to them, this time too quiet to overhear. Then he stepped back, and spread his wings. The Man and the Woman drew protective arms up as the wind from his ascent blew in their faces, and the Serpent squinted as it watched the angel glide back towards the Wall of Eden. It remained staring for a moment or two, then coiled back down the tree. Freed from the Garden at last, it set to exploring the new world laid out before it.

_-__Anno 2,644 Ante Christum__-_

The Serpent—although he hardly looked like one, now (except for the eyes)—sat atop a sand dune, expression bored as he watched what would-be peasants construct what would-be the very first step pyramid for the burial of who would-be the most-famous Pharaoh of the Third Dynasty of Egypt by his vizier, Imhotep. The "Pyramid of Djoser"—as it would come to be known—was being built right before his snake-slit yellow eyes in Saqqara, which would someday be an archeaological site northwest of the city of Memphis, Egypt.

The sun was hot. The Serpent yawned, showing fangs. He'd never really gotten around to getting rid of them. It'd only been a little over a millennium since the Garden, after all, and he enjoyed grinning at people and seeing them recoil in fear. But, on the whole, he was fond of these future Egyptians. They'd taken_ extremely_ well to the notion of multiple gods, and the Serpent liked being able to change into a cobra or a two-headed snake and be worshipped without question. If it angered Father Above, all the better. It was his job to 'cause trouble' for humans, after all, and he intended on doing his best.

He was musing on his most recent tribute when he felt an angel come up behind him. The Serpent rolled off the dune, spun around, flung sand at its face and coiled to spring. But something gave him pause. The Serpent squinted at the coughing angel, who was currently rubbing his eyes before sneezing, fitfully, a few times. The Serpent had to snort, but warily remained crouched, a good distance away.

"Not too good at stealth, are you." He stated this quickly, shiny black scales appearing in patches on random bits of skin, due to anxiety. He didn't think to will them away just yet, too distracted to notice. He was still getting the hang of this 'man' shape, and sometimes instinct just took over. That same instinct was currently _screaming_ at him to get as far away as _possible_ from the Unfallen standing in front of him. But the angel sniffled—rather disarmingly—and blinked, squinting at him with a hesitant smile around the sand.

"I-I suppose not? I'm sorry, perhaps I shouldn't have come up behind you unannounced…" The Serpent's eyes narrowed at the grey-blue of that gaze. He jerked suddenly in possible realization, and reached out his tattered Grace to check. The angel flinched as it brushed his own Grace, but didn't retreat, and the Serpent cried out, pointing.

"I _knew_ it! You're that—from the Garden—" The angel gave an uneasy smile, hands crossing over his front in an absent-minded move of defense, grasping his elbows.

"A-Am I?" The Serpent sauntered up to him, eyes wide in disbelief, hands expressively gesticulating.

"Yeah! You bastard, where have you—" The Serpent paused, then drew himself up elegantly and coughed, looking away. "I mean, er." Another cough. "Thanks. For that." His impressive declaration was lost on the angel, who only blinked, befuddled, at him.

"For what?" The Serpent hissed in frustration, and waved his slinky (still getting the hang of the shape, remember) arms about in movements that were weirdly graceful.

"You—You let me out of the Garden! You didn't—" Recognition suddenly hit and the angel gasped, rushing forward to embrace him.

"Oh! Oh, it's _you_!" The Serpent wheezed and the angel hurriedly let go, backing up and looking sheepish but still happy. "I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize you without—er—" The angel blinked at the patches of black scales on the Serpent's skin, and blushed a little, waving vaguely. "I-I mean, _with_ quite a few new limbs, and at eye-level, and—" The Serpent grinned, unable to help it, and slung an arm around the angel's shoulder, turning him about to look at the pyramid.

"You've missed a lot. Look at that—human ingenuity. 's been a millennia or two, hasn't it? Where've you been?"

"Erm—Here and there. And I believe it's been one-thousand, three-hundred and sixty years, or thereabouts." The Serpent peered at him. The angel blinked back, oblivious. The Serpent snickered, ducking his head and hiding his laughter. The angel sounded affronted, now.

"I'll _have_ you know, I was on the other side of the world! How was I to realize you'd be—er—" The angel prodded at his cheek to get his attention, sounding confused. "That is, why _are_ you here, dear boy?" The Serpent looked up at him, still grinning a little, but now making sure to show his fangs.

"Hell's Field Agent at your service, angel."

"I—You—Oh." The angel appeared discomfited by this, and made to try and escape out from under the Serpent's slung arm. Perplexed, the Serpent let him go. The angel looked at him from a few steps away, now, expression pained.

"What's wrong?" The angel whispered in response.

"I'm _Heaven's_ Field Agent." The Serpent felt his face break out in patches of distressed scales. "Your Enemy. Er, well—'Sanctioned Adversary', that is. Oh, my, what rotten luck." The angel glanced up, nervously, and made a shooing gesture with his hands. "Please—ah—I don't want to fight you. Please just leave?" The Serpent raised a brow. The angel smiled at him uncertainly, but the Serpent found his mouth curling into a frown, his expression sobering.

The _arrogance_. The angel was being polite about it, but obviously still assumed he would be _obeyed, _like he was _naturally superior—_and _that_…The Serpent straightened, fingers flexing slightly as he tipped his head a bit, looking at the angel differently. (Now, he was sizing him up.)

"I'm not leaving." The Serpent said slowly, gaze narrowing. "This is my Satan-given_ role, _and I was here first." The angel stared back at him, seeming flummoxed, and gestured helplessly around with an outstretched hand.

"But—these people—they _can't_ believe in so many gods, Father will—"

"Then _let_ Father." The Serpent hissed back, personal anger coloring his tone with vengeful hate. "It'll only show how _little_ he cares about them, if he strikes them down for having _too little faith_ to worship just _him." _The angel met his gaze, endearing indecision giving way to something stubbornly virtuous and _pure._ (And in that moment, the Serpent realized he hated everything that blessed angel _was—_right down to his wholesome Grace and steadfast confidence.) His voice dropped low, that angelic expression no longer mild and bemused, but firm and controlled, like a warrior's.

"It is not your place to coerce them into sin, Snake." The Serpent hissed, again, hackles rising and the patches of black scales disappearing from his skin, yellow eyes glowing faintly orange as he began to fluff up his power, like a cat preparing to hiss. Wind started to whirl out from the pair, blowing up sand and causing clouds to bend towards them in a spiralling vortex.

"Did you _forgetss _the Garden, angel? Itss_s _my _only_ place, and nots _yourss _to sssave them. Sssstand down if you don'tss wantss a fightsss." Blue eyes flickering with sparks of holy light met orange, and they stared at each other for a moment. The world held its breath. Fate revealed itself as the angel recited his orders, very softly.

"Angels exist purely to aid and revere Man. I cannot allow you to continue." The Serpent grinned maliciously. His jealousy and spite blazed hot, and here was a chance for _revenge_ on a creature God still called his own. If a demon could strike an angel down… Said angel's righteousness and conviction smoldered coolly, as he watched his demonic foe, poised and waiting as said foe plotted to himself.

Snarling, the Serpent sprang at him over the sand, white wings arcing towards the sky.

The angel put out his hands, holy Grace swirling around them.

It was their first battle, but far from their last.

[ In the 14th Century (1400 BC to 1301 BC), the Egyptians embraced monotheism (worship of one god—in this case, the sun god, Aten) for twenty years before returning to their more traditional polytheism. Over the years, the Egyptians' traditional beliefs would be overtaken by Christianity, which, in turn, would be overthrown by Islam. (It should also be noted that "Egyptian religion" was claimed by both Heaven and Hell as a success, depending on what time period you looked at.) ]

: : :

This particular angel and Serpent would have many more battles, over the ensuing millennia. They would work in their own area for a while, trying to build something up for their side, only to have the other show up and cause trouble. The angel helped humanity invent the magnetic compass in 1120 BC. He also helped influence the start of the Olympic Games in Greece, in 776 BC. The Serpent managed to taint the angel's victory by influencing the adoption of Draconian laws—that is, laws which listed death as a punishment—in 621 BC. The Serpent also picked a battle with Athens (the angel's pet city, with the Serpent's being Sparta) through whispering in the ears of the Persian leaders. Twenty-six miles from Athens on a plain called Marathon, 100,000 Persians fought 11,000 Athenians, If the Athenian soldiers lost the battle of Marathon, the people of Athens would flee to the hills. If the Athenian soldiers won, the people would stay and prepare for a seige by the invading Persians. The battle at Marathon raged, and the city waited anxiously for news.

Neither the angel nor the demon could affect the outcome of a battle or a war, but they _could_ affect individuals. But they had already done all they could do, and now the result of this battle would be determined by whose will was stronger—the defending Athenians (the angel's side) or the attacking Persians (the Serpent's side). The angel and Serpent hovered overhead, caught in their own fight—invisible to the mortals below—and tearing into each other with all the fury of Heaven and Hell. Eventually, the Serpent felt his Persian side weakening against the steadfast conviction of the Athenians, and was forced into defeat. The angel discorporated him, and it was only many years later that the Serpent would hear what the final totals for casualty lists of the Battle of Marathon had been. 6,400 Persians soldiers died, as opposed to 192 Athenians.

The Serpent had his revenge with Socrates, taking great relish in the fact he caused the well-known philosopher to attend his trial with quite the arrogant attitude. The angel had been distraught. In 216 BC, against Rome, the Serpent basked in Hannibal's victory. He'd grown bored with Rome, anyway (even though it was wonderfully corrupt and hedonistic, the world needed a change—Hastur and Ligur had been _quite _clear on the Orders from Beëlzebub concerning Rome's Fall), and it was just as well that the once-great empire lost 70,000 men while Hannibal's lost only 6,000.

The bumbled Western calendar was entirely the angel's fault, however. It jumped straight from 1 BC to 1 AD, therefore making 1-100 AD the 1st Century. Calculations for time from then on resulted in such annoyances such as 1501-1600 being called the 16th Century. This made the different terms of identifying the centuries hard to remember, as years beginning with what should logically be the century number would actually be the number _after_. Another example would include the years 701-800 being referred to as the 8th Century. If the angel had had the common sense to point out the need for a year _zero_ between BC and AD, however (thus making the 1st Century 0-99, the 8th Century 800-899 and the 16th Century 1600-1699), it is entirely possible century terminology would be much easier to understand, today.

The birth of Christ was naturally a time of great upheaval. Many angels walked the Earth in vessels, for the first time. The angel was surrounded by his brothers and the Serpent had to resort to stealthy means to avoid being smote on sight. (He would later claim this is how he learned to blend in with humanity so well.) Thirty years later, Christ was on the Cross, dying, and as his spirit fled Above, the angel's brothers departed Earth to minister to the Son in Heaven. As the Field Agent Stationed on Earth, the angel was forced to remain at his post. He felt not only the terrible hole the loss of the Son's presence on Earth tore in him, but also the sting of loneliness from once again being the only angel on Earth. The Serpent, try as he might to deny it, had also built up a begrudging respect for the Son, and while the lack of Christ's presence did not cripple him with sadness as it had his Sanctioned Adversary, the Serpent still felt a small twinge of pain at the absence. Christ had been the sort of rare, powerful man that the Serpent found himself determining three truths about: he was kind, humble, and completely incorruptible.

The Serpent and the angel had been fighting for over 4,000 years, and the incarnation of God on Earth had just been called up to Heaven, along with the rest of the Heavenly Host on Earth. If there was ever a time to set differences aside and commiserate with an Enemy, this could be the only _possibly_ excusable occasion. Even Heaven had to grant that—and Hell? Well, Hell would simply say it would be the best time to take advantage of his Adversary's weakness and make the angel Fall. (Not that the Serpent _would_, but that's what he wrote in his report of the event, afterwards.)

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 34__-_

The Serpent can't see straight—in fact, there are about three identical angels sitting across from him, their outlines hazy and wobbling. He also can't seem to remember how they got here, but right now, _tonight_, he just can't bring himself to care enough to sober up and think it out. There'd been enough of that all day, and right now 'drunk' is the preferred state of operation.

(For both him _and_ his Sanctioned Adversary, apparently. But neither of them wants to think about sides, right now. Right now, it just _hurts_ and after all the other angels helped usher the Redeemer, King of Kings, Angel of the Endless Skies, Lamb that is called Emmanuel, Prince of Heaven, Savior of Man, Son of God and Light of the World back to Above, also returning, themselves—after thirty-some years down on Earth—it was hard. Not so much on the Serpent, who could breathe a little freer without running into a fresh-from-Heaven smite-happy consecrated lower-ranking angel everywhere he went, but on the other angel—his Sanctified Adversary. For _that_ angel, after not having been back up on Heaven for so long—four millennia thirty-eight years ago—to have his brothers around him for a few short decades, only to lose them again… for _that_ angel, the Serpent knew it had been hard. And the Serpent still had some form of Grace, as a Fallen—tattered as it was—so he still felt bereft when the Son left Earth. It'd made him ache, too, and the Serpent didn't know if it was Earth's influence from these past four thousand years, or something else, but—but right now, they _didn't _have sides. They were just two man-shaped beings, memories of Golgotha excruciatingly fresh in their minds, and they were getting drunk. This time tomorrow they'd be enemies again—back to beating the snot out of each other at every chance they'd get—but right now, they were just _drunks_.)

"And I 'member when sse mother-hic-blesser was baptissszed! Don'tssha 'member ssat? I 'member sssat. Damn sssstubborn as a mule. [1]" The angel nodded sagely, clumsily sloshing wine over his front. A response seemed beyond him, at the moment, but the Serpent plowed on ahead, anyway, gazing transfixedly at the lamp on the wooden table between them. "Sssstubborn boy. Son, whatssever. Why'd He sssend Hiss boy down here jusst to die, eh? Whasss yer ineffable plan fer sssat, eh?" He pointed accusingly at the angel, eyes going crossed as his brow furrowed, trying to make the three angels become one. The angel blinked at him, then smiled drunkenly, waving his wineskin around with a laugh.

"'s th' point, dear boy! See—" The angel gestured emphatically, spilling more wine as his face grew intense with meaning. "See, th' humans. Can't go 'round doing 't fer themselves. Since Eden an' Ave—er, Adam an' Eve—they've been s-suff'ring, yeah? So no humans work, fer dyin'. Nope, already suff'ring! But th' _Son_—" He pointed straight at the Serpent's nose, whose vertically-slit eyes widened in belated understanding. "Th' Son's Him on Earth, yeah? Inn'shent as a Lamb. So, 's… 's showing Him's love fer th' humans. Makin' His Son go, a'mean. Suff'ring. Him suff'ring fer… fer them. Y'see?" The angel beamed proudly, but his face crumpled soon enough, looking troubled. He sniffled, whimpering softly and rubbing the back of his hand against his nose as his eyes grew teary. "Good lad, though. Horrid way t' go. Wasn't 'llowed t' help—'gainst th' rules. …Was a good lad." The angel repeated, miserably, lower lip quivering. The Serpent snorted, waving a hand and miracling the angel's wineskin full, again.

"Sssshuts up, wiss sssat. More wine!" The angel tipped to the side a bit with the added weight, but regained his balance (with some visible difficulty) and nodded, leaning back in his chair.

"Much ob—obligd—Thanks, dear." The Serpent hissed, snapping his fingers in irritation.

"Buts sssats doessn't make sssense, angel! God, ssssuff'ring? Whasss sse point of sssat?" The angel giggled, raising a finger, but the Serpent growled menacingly (mockingly) and the angel fluttered his fingers, grinning stupidly as he relinquished the floor. "Don'tss interrupts! Now, I sssaid… whatss?" The Serpent looked mystified, eyes narrowing in thought. "Hey! Don'tsss keep cloning! Hassssn't been infented, yets!" The angel peered into the mouth of his wineskin.

"Somethin' 'bou'… Not makin' sense? But tha''s th' ineff'ble plan, ol' boy!" The Serpent cut him off, just as the angel was winding up to really get going.

"Noooone of ssat, _hey_! Bloody ineffable plan!" The angel gasped in horror (belatedly realizing he _should_ be horrified at such cursing), and the Serpent's smirk turned sharp as his fangs manifested. (It was still diluted, due to the alcohol.) "Gives its a sssoughts. Whasss you an' I fightsings for, eh? Whass parts of yer 'ineffable plan' is sssat?" The angel blinked at him, appearing befuddled, his vision sliding over the Serpent's features, his forehead knitting.

"Wussat?" The Serpent hissed, tangling his tongue around the words. It flicked out, revealing the forked tip that tended to show up when he forgot to hide it. The angel caught sight of it, and seemed transfixed.

"'sss jusst, sse fightsing—sssstop sstaring ats my damned sstongue!" The angel blushed (turning the already-healthy, rosy flush encompassing his neck and cheeks even redder) and smiled disarmingly. The Serpent hmphed in his throat, but leaned back, fingertips tapping over the neck of his own wineskin as he looked off, mumbling.

"'sss jusssts… all ssis fightsing, yeah? Whasss sse points?" The angel frowned foggily at him.

"'s our jobs, you know. Orders—" The Serpent interrupted him, yet again.

"From Abofe and Below, I _gets_ ssats, angel, 'ss nots whatsss I—" The angel tipped his head.

"Then what?" Frustrated, the Serpent lapsed into silence, glaring off at a spot on the dirt floor for some time. When the words finally came, they were slow. He didn't look up.

"Don'tsss you… ever, I dunno… gets ssick… ahf fightsing?" The angel blinked at him, but the Serpent still didn't look up. Long, demonic fingers caressed the neck of his wineskin in an absent, nervous gesture.

"Sick of it?" The Serpent nodded at the prompt, but otherwise didn't elaborate. He just heaved a sigh, slumping back into his chair further, limbs shaking out in such a way as though they were trying to get rid of the bones.

"Yeah… Well. 'ss nussing, angel." The Serpent looked up, his grin bright and brittle. "More wine?"

[1] The Serpent was referring, of course, to the events that took place just _after_ the Son's baptism. (Specifically, the events of Matthew 4:1-4:11, included here for your enjoyment.)

1 Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.

2 And after fasting forty days and forty nights, he was hungry.

3 And the tempter came and said to him, "If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread."

4 But he answered, "It is written, 'Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.'"

5 Then the devil took him to the holy city and set him on the pinnacle of the temple

6 and said to him, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down, for it is written, 'He will command his angels concerning you,' and 'On their hands they will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone.'"

7 Jesus said to him, "Again, it is written, 'You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.'"

8 Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory.

9 And he said to him, "All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me."

10 Then Jesus said to him, "Be gone, Satan [2]! For it is written, 'You shall worship the Lord your God and him only shall you serve.'"

11 Then the devil left him, and behold, angels came and were ministering to him.

[2] Naturally, this was not entirely accurate (and the Serpent's words didn't quite make it to print exactly as he'd said them, either). The truth was, when the Son had related this story to Matthew, the name got changed from "Crawly" to something a touch more dramatic and sinister, to really 'resonate with the audience' (or so Matthew had insisted, at the time). The Serpent had been rather miffed about it, ever since (even though, deep down, he did grudgingly think the Son to be a rather tolerable bloke, despite the fact that he—the Serpent, a denizen of _Hell_—was logically supposed to hate him).

: : :

This brief moment of drunken camaraderie did not change much. In fact, it changed _nothing_, as both sides (not Heaven and Hell, but the angel and the Serpent) mutually agreed never to mention it again. In 70 AD, the Romans killed 1.5 million Jews in Jerusalem. In 250 AD, the Mayans entered their Golden Age. In 361 AD, Emperor Julian "The Apostate" of Rome tried to reinstate pagan religion (a bold jab by the Serpent). In 410 AD, Rome was sacked, but the invading General tells his troops not to kill needlessly nor harm churches (the angel's firm response). History is too full of many monumental events taking place all over the world (some at the same time) to name all the ones involving these two Enemies, here, but one particularly memorable conflict between them occurred in what would-be China, during the Tang Dynasty.

: : :

_-__Annis Domini 710 ad 755__-_

The Serpent watched as the angel prodded the poor boy of ignoble birth into a place of good standing in the military, and couldn't help but want to spite him. He bided his time, and kept hidden as the angel patted An Lushan on his head, told him to be grateful and humble for all his good fortune, and went to bask in the dawning Golden Age of the Tang Dynasty. As the years ticked by, the Serpent took great pride in slowly corrupting the self-declared "adopted son of Yang Guifei" with the taste for power his high position had given him. The Emperor loved him, because his concubine loved him. And from there it was _so_ easy to ensure An Lushan's political safety, from the simple fact that the Emperor would hear nothing against him. The angel returned too late to reverse it, for now Yang Guifei's second cousin Yang Guozhong (also a high-ranking man) had caught onto An Lushan's schemings and was trying to make him outright rebel. The political damage was undoable when An Lushan finally did so, and it caused the Serpent to grin to himself at the angelic woe he sensed from his millennia-long opponent. He stayed out of sight.

An Lushan did not disappoint. Truly, it had been rather stupid of Emperor Xuanzong to give the man 160,000 troops (and thus, the means for a coup), but the Serpent wasn't really complaining. At the close of 755, the Serpent (invisible to the mortals, of course) hovered above the beseiged city of Luoyang on the side of An Lushan and grinned at his counterpart across the way. The angel, of course, was on the defending side of the city (and General Feng Changqing). After a staredown, the angel rushed him in mid-air and the Serpent followed suit, hissing as the angel flared his holy aura to try and blind him. But the battle below was bloody and irreverent and the Serpent felt the power of the damned pulsing through him. He snarled and bit at the white wings, clawed at that pure face and relished the cries of pain. The result of the battle below did not depend on them—no, the battle was all the humans' doing, even despite the hand they'd had in the background. But the result of _their_ battle hinged on if good or evil won, below.

The Serpent felt victory, he could _taste_ it, and swelled with strength at all the evil overpowering the honor, beneath them. He cackled—a horrible, fetid sound—as he broke wing bones, plucked out feathers and generally enjoyed getting the best of his opponent. Blue eyes glared up at him in righteous anger as the angel struggled, and the Serpent flicked his forked tongue at him, leaning in with a conspiring taunt.

"Feel likess joining the _winning_ sssside, yets, angel? I couldss _arrange_—" The angel spat at his cheek, and the Serpent laughed. He released his hold, snagged the bloodied, snapped wing and cartwheeled the angel around him, white wings beating powerfully as he built up the centrifugal force.

"A ssssshame!" He hissed in ferocious glee, yellow vertically-slit eyes trained to the angel's face. It was in pure agony, clear as day, and the Serpent lapped it up like milk. He adjusted his grip, and heard the pleasant cracks as a few more bones broke. The angel gasped in pain, but held the rest in, and the Serpent was slightly disappointed. He shrugged—resulting in another snap of bone—and whirled the angel around faster and faster, until he let go and watched the angel fly clear out to the edge of the city. Eyes narrowing, he estimated the trajectory and beat it there before the angel could land. Indeed, he _helped_ him land, building up his momentum before he abruptly folded his wings in and _dove, _feet-first, pressing them into the spine of the angel's most recent corporation—_that_ was about to change—and drove his foe into the dirt with all the force he could muster. With another evil laugh, the Serpent climbed off the angel and took his shoulder, turning him to face the sky so those blue eyes could _see_ his gloating face as they darkened.

"I _win_." Those eyes flared in holy affront, but the body gave up just as after he said that, and a flash of light—the angel—shot skyward out of it. The Serpent watched the speed of this, amused. He wondered how long it would take the angel to get another body, so they could continue their never-ending feud. He turned to watch the battlefield, and grinned to himself.

_Either way, it'll never get boring around __**here**__._

_-__Anno Domini 763__-_

The Serpent supposed he should've seen it coming—nothing bad lasted forever. An Lushan's rule was short, as he was killed in an assassination in 757 arranged by An Qingxu, the heir-apparent, who was becoming nervous that another of An Lushan's sons would be named as crown prince. An Qingxu was killed in 759 by Shi Siming, a childhood friend of An Lushan, who gave An Lushan a proper burial. [3] But honor amongst humans rarely lasts, and soon Shi Siming was considering giving the title of crown prince to not the heir-apparent, Shi Chaoyi, but another son, Shi Chaoqing. Shi Siming grew cruel and prone to killing his servants, and after one ridiculous request that Shi Chaoyi managed to fulfill (but not to Shi Siming's satisfaction), Shi Chaoyi's generals threatened to defect if he did not find a way out of his father's punishment (in this case, _death_, once the campaign was completed). Shi Chaoyi ordered for his father to be kidnapped from his tent, and convinced Shi Siming's General Cao to go along with the plot. Shi Siming was killed on the way back to Shi Chaoyi's encampment, as one of the kidnappers feared he would be rescued. In 761, Shi Chaoyi then declared himself Emperor, but failed to garner support from the other generals. As the war went on and they were defeated numerous times, these generals defected back to the Tang side, and, in 763, Shi Chaoyi committed suicide.

The angel didn't look exactly _smug, _but definitely irritatingly relieved, as he stood atop the highest horizontal roof pole of the Chinese palace, arms crossed and light brown hair—not blond, like last time—wavy around his shoulders, covering his ears. The Serpent moodily slouched opposite him, on the other end. Their wings—flawless as always, indicating that the angel had quite recovered from their last great injury in 756—arced out behind them in masses of subtly-shifting white feathers, keeping them perfectly balanced. The Serpent spat at his counterpart, unable to take the silence anymore.

"Right, _fine, _the rebellion's over. Break out the harps and start singing praises." The angel blinked at him, canting his head at first, but his expression sobered. He looked away. The Serpent ground his teeth in annoyance, flinging out his arms.

"You _won._ What, no gloating? My boys lost, got killed, didn't bring down the bloody Tang Dynasty. Your sodding Golden Age can continue in _peace_." The angel glanced at him sharply, blue eyes cutting and serious. The Serpent's insides squirmed, uncomfortably. He was quietly relieved when the angel redirected his gaze to the palace courtyard.

"Don't you understand? No one wins—not in a battle like this." The angel put a hand to his mouth, and the Serpent felt a wave of disgust well up within him as those blue eyes grew misty. The Serpent _bit_ through the sodding emotional pause.

"Could've fooled me. I'm pretty sure I heard people celebrating down there, and—"

"Do you_ know_ how many people _died_ because of this rebellion?" The angel burst out, suddenly, whipping back around to face his eternal foe, expression taut and feathers fluttering madly to keep his balance. Reptilian eyes blinked at the vehement reaction, and, for a moment, the Serpent couldn't respond. Nonplussed, he vaguely tried to figure the numbers in his head. Bugger, math always failed him.

"Uh…" It was just as well. The angel rambled on, obviously distraught.

"Over thirty-three _million_ souls!" It should've made the Serpent _delighted_ to see the angel so anguished, but—instead, the Serpent found himself reasoning with him, tone almost annoyed.

"Angel, this is _war, _and humans die _all the_—"

"_Fourteen percent_ of the world's population is _dead, _all killed within _eight years!" _The angel turned from him, shoulders tense but quivering, obviously overcome. "Eight years of politics and rebellion and battle and pointless _hate_!" The Serpent felt his throat lock up, and coughed to clear it. He glanced away nervously before closing his eyes and forcing a nonchalant, uncaring tone.

"Guess I've done my job, then." He saw the punch coming (even with his eyes shut), but didn't bother to dodge it. He flew, and landed hard, the tiles of the roof cracking beneath his back. The Serpent winced as a few broken ones dug into his spine, slivering open his eyes as he rubbed his jaw. The angel stood over him, hands fisted at his sides, blue-grey gaze fixed and hard on his.

"_Don't _you say that." It was an undertone, almost, but it didn't quite sound angry. More… frustrated? Disappointed? The Serpent wasn't sure what to think when those hurt—(oh, _that's _ what it was)—eyes softened. He managed a croak.

"Don't say what?" The angel sighed, shoulders slumping and he looked off towards the courtyard, again. His stance was wide and unguarded—the Serpent could easily discorporate him with a well-aimed kick. [4] But instead, the Serpent just lay there. He was feeling lazy (or something). It was probably the fault of the sun-warmed roof tiles (because that _was_ a reasonable conclusion, really).

"Don't try to distract me and take credit for what the humans have done to themselves." The angel's gaze was unfocused and distant, achingly pained in the way only Heavenly beings can be. The Serpent felt a familiar twinge of jealousy, but shoved it down with a strained laugh as he sat up, grimacing as his broken back was still in the process of knitting itself together.

"Heh. Can't blame a demon for trying." The angel seemed to blink, then, and glanced down at him. The Serpent thought he saw a ghost of a smile—a bare remnant, a memory of the kind angel he'd met at the Eastern Gate. (…It made him remember warmth.)

"No. I suppose I can't." The Serpent nearly smiled back, but caught himself in time, turning it into a leer.

"Next time, I'll discorporate you. Consider this a freebie." The angel raised an eyebrow, gaze fond but voice cool and face ostensibly unflappable.

"You honestly shouldn't make such threats when you know _perfectly _well who would have won, had we fought this time, d—" The Serpent peered curiously up at him as the angel cut himself off, blue-grey eyes now looking out at the city as he not-so-subtly ignored his stutter. "Demon. Well. Until next time." White feathers twitched as muscles moved, and soon the angel was airbourne. The Serpent watched as he climbed through the sky, wings skimming the clouds as the angel disappeared into them and out of sight.

The Serpent dropped his head back between his shoulder blades, staring upward. He hadn't expected the angel to help him up—it wasn't like they were _friends_, after all, and it would've been odd, and wrong. But he replayed the angel's near-smile in his head, and let himself chuckle a little. They might not be _friends_, but they were consecrated good rivals. It was nice to have someone always there, someone predictable, someone who _understood_ this world. His superiors were so behind-the-times it was more pathetic than funny, really. The Serpent snorted to himself, feeling the last of his vertabrae realign, and pushed himself off the broken roof tiles. He stretched, arms above his head, back arcing and cracking a little. Then he sighed, relaxing. His own wings (perfectly fine, as he'd had the sense to call them in _just_ before the angel had punched him) spread out from his back with a thought.

China was boring. Perhaps he'd best head elsewhere.

[3] The Serpent always privately suspected the angel's interference in this arc of the circle of assassinations, given that Shi Siming chastised An Qingxu before he killed him, judging him as though privy to certain_ facts_. ("You were a son, and you killed your father and usurped his throne. Heaven, Earth, and the gods cannot tolerate you. I am attacking the bandits on behalf of _An Lushan_, and I will not listen to your flattery.")

[4] The kick would catch the angel off-balance, and make it easy to pounce atop him. Next, they'd roll off the roof, scuffling in midair and too tangled up together for either to be able to fly away. The Serpent would get the angel beneath him, and said angel's corporeal body would fatally break on impact with the ground. Thusly managed, it would be _far_ too easy to discorporate him, and then the Serpent would have the world to himself for a few days while his nemesis went through the paperwork to procure a new body.

: : :

After the turn of yet another millennium, the rivalry between the angel and the Serpent continued as per usual. _Beowulf_ (a steadfast, moral and firmly entertaining epic poem of heroic deeds) spread quickly over much of Europe, while _The Tale of Genji_ titillated Japanese Heian court nobles with endless scandals (concerning the women in the life of the protagonist, "The Shining Prince"). Hungary became an officially Christian state in 1000, and, in 1001, Danish invaders defeated English forces. Predictably, in 1002, an English king massacred Danish settlers, and almost a year later, in 1003, Leif Erikson discovered what would be called the New World. Other achievements and horrors came and went, but the angel had to draw the line when his counterpart went too far.

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 1,009__-_

Perched atop a hill in Jerusalem, this particular Christian church had seen much strife. It was damaged by fire in 614, when the Persians (under Khosrau II) invaded Jerusalem and stole a very important Item from it. In 630, Emperor Heraclius marched proudly back into the city and restored the Item to the church, which had been rebuilt. For a few centuries, future Muslim rulers would keep this (and other sites) preserved for Christian worship, even allowing it to be used as living quarters. Fatimid Caliph Al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah succeeded his father at age eleven in 996, and until 1004 there was not a visible shift in ruling style. Al-Hakim was a Shiite, and for the first eight years of his reign acted much like his Shiite khalif predecessors by favoring Shiite interpretations, exhibiting a hostile attitude towards Sunni Muslims, and admirably tolerating the "People of the Book" (that is, Jews, Sabians and Christians) who lived under his rule.

In 1004, at age nineteen, al-Hakim declared the People of the Book were no longer allowed to celebrate Epiphany or Easter, and outlawed the use of wine, which placed a strain on the Christians (who used it in their rites) and the Jews (who used it in their festivals). In 1005, al-Hakim required People of the Book to wear black belts and black turbans, to differentiate them from Muslim citizens. Christians were ordered to wear an iron cross necklace, and Jews to wear a wooden calf necklace (to be replaced by a bell necklace, when in the public baths). Sabian women were required to wear one red shoe and one black. Muslims also received similar commands, such as women being forbidden from showing their faces in public and it became a crime if one entered a public bath-house with one's loins uncovered. In addition to these more personal restrictions, al-Hakim closed many clubs and other places of entertainment.

But all of this was nothing compared to how his policies shifted in 1007, when al-Hakim's preference for Shiite Islam cooled, and he adopted a more tolerant attitude towards Sunni Muslims while beginning to show hostility towards People of the Book. Of the church mentioned before, it was rumored al-Hakim believed the annual worship of the Holy Fire to be a fraud, and ordered its destruction as well as that of its related buildings. The church, having stood in relative peace for so very long, was razed—only those items which weren't easily destroyed managing to survive.

This building was the Church of the Holy Sepluchre. Its significance came from the long-held belief that it had been erected over the spot where Christ had been crucified, also encompassing the sepluchre into which he was placed after death, and from which he Rose from the dead.

The angel hovered over the wreckage, Grace lit with tempered holy fury and deep sorrow. He did as much as he could, protected what he could and ballasted parts of the building to prevent their collapse. With the might of evil driving the actions of al-Hakim's soldiers, however, he could only do so much, and so the angel was forced to watch as holy stone crumbled and holy wood burned. He felt a pulse of darkness, and raised his eyes. The Serpent was floating just above the destruction, grinning wide and emanating satisfaction. Blue eyes narrowed as the demon crowed.

"So _sorry,_ angel. Al-Hakim couldn't _help_ but come to despise the Christians, and this is just—"

They dropped together, a tangle of limbs and white feathers as the angel tackled him in midair, palm shining white as he pressed it to the Serpent's head. The demon laughed off the attempted smite, spinning them around, grunting as he vied for control. They wrestled while the ground came up at them.

"Can't smite me like _this_, angel! Too much evil in the air!" The angel remained stonily silent as they grappled, putting all his concentration into gaining the upper hand, and when they hit the ground it was the _Serpent_ who gasped in pain, bones in his legs shattering against broken stone and splintered wood. The angel moved to straddle him, hands pinning his wrists to scorched rock. The demon hissed at the undiluted contact with holy ground, wisps of steam curling lazily upward from his corporation before he shielded himself. The fire all around them didn't call any attention, either—its flames licked, but did no harm to the two supernatural beings. A blue-grey gaze simmered with hurt buried so deeply that his stare only came across as blank.

"You had _no reason_ to do this. These people are innocent! People of the Book, only living here, accepting the conditions of being under Muslim rule—they are _good_! They put up with the persecution since it means still being able to live and worship here in this holy city, and you—" A pair of angelic tears welled up, and the Serpent winced as they landed on his skin, sizzling as they scalded one cheek. The twin angry, red blisters didn't heal, and yellow serpentine eyes glared up at his foe.

"Sssshut up. It's my _job_ to do harm, and jussst because I put the idea in al-Hakim's head doessssn't mean I _knew_ he would—"

"Stop lying to me." The Serpent froze, at that cold, unforgiving tone, and found himself looking up into hard eyes. The angel's grip on him made his yet-unbroken bones creak, and he hissed involuntarily in pain and fear.

"_Whatss_?" The angel glared at him, placing a palm on the Serpent's chest and manifesting his Grace so that it _glowed_. The demonic creature shuddered, fangs manifesting at the threatening holy light.

"That night, don't you remember? You said you were _sick_ of this." Foggily, memories came trickling back and the Serpent grimaced at the content of them. He looked off and muttered under his breath, making a conscious effort not to hiss.

"I was drunk." The angel shook him, voice rising in affront.

"Don't make excuses! And _stop _lying!"A slap across the face, this time, and the divine contact left a red, hand-shaped burn beside the two smaller, circular ones. The Serpent hissed up at him angrily, for that, wriggling a little, trying to escape. He was held firmly down.

"_Sssstop_ that! Sacred angel. Look—" He fixed his gaze up on his counterpart, annoyed and frowning. "I haven't lied to you, alright? This whole thing—" The Serpent nodded his head, indicating the ruins around them. "—was al-Hakim's idea. Not mine. All that stuff about Christians and Jews and Sabians having to wear certain things? _Mine._" He grinned cheekily up at the silent angel, fangs prominent. "Nothing like people getting annoyed with a ruler. Great consequences, from that."

"And that night?" The Serpent shifted his shoulders, looking off uncomfortably.

"What about it." Non-glowing fingertips (when had the angel restrained his Grace?) brushed over the Serpent's forehead, and the touch—surprisingly—wasn't painful. That angelic voice was soft, but guarded.

"You said you were sick of fighting. Then you appear, bragging over things like _this_. Which is it?" The Serpent started to gather his energy, and the angel tensed, but the demon kept it firmly within his own body, not aggressive, presumably healing. Snake-slit eyes were still directed away as he mumbled.

"Don't know what you're talking about. Fighting you's all in the job—right, oh Sanctioned Adversary." It inadvertently came out like a question, and the Serpent felt the angel pause, parse his words, hesitate. Seizing his chance, the Serpent instantly changed forms and quickly slithered out of the baggy folds of his clothes and away into the rubble, hiding. He watched as the angel blinked, his forehead creasing while he slowly stood. The angel methodically searched his surroundings with tendrils of Grace, and the Serpent shrank back as those blue-grey eyes locked on him. But the angel did nothing—merely stood, gazing in his direction. After a few tense minutes, the Serpent watched as the angel's wings finally spread out from his back, scruffy from their tussle and still radiating Grace as he took flight.

The Serpent tried to forget that analyzing stare and the short conversation, but couldn't shake off the memory. No matter how hard he tried, it stuck with him, accordingly blossoming and festering over the years as his mind grew around it, striking up ideas that were rejected over and over until at last, he couldn't ignore it anymore. One thought remained lodged firmly in his head, and one day the Serpent finally allowed himself to see it, consider it. Soon after, he sought out his foe.

_-__Anno Domini 1,012__-_

He knew the angel would be in Jerusalem, right now. Al-Hakim had just announced that all Christian and Jewish places of worship were to be destroyed. Predictably (after a few hours of observation), the Serpent found the angel rushing madly about the city, trying to temper as much destruction as he could. The demon touched down quietly behind him, and the angel spun around quickly, ready to blast him with Grace, but the Serpent held up his hands in a gesture of uneasy peace. The angel kept his hand raised, but the Serpent hadn't expected any less. Feeling the righteous fury and sorrow emanating from his Enemy, the Serpent ducked his head, submissively, keeping his eyes on the angel.

"You don't like this, right?" Angelic brows rose as he stated this, and his opponent's stare turned dubious. After a lengthy, assessing staredown, the angel spoke, quietly.

"No." The angel gestured around him with a hand at the mindless destruction, grey-blue eyes still sharp and focused on the Serpent. "This kind of radical persecution is completely unnecessary." The demon almost smiled at the suspicion, but kept his face carefully serious.

"You want to take a break? How about I help with the damage?" The angel's stance immediately shifted to offensive, tone steely and accusing.

"You _dare_ try and_ tempt_ while true believers _suffer_? I daren't trust a demon to such work!" The Serpent quickly waved his hands in front of him, palms-out as he backed up, eyes wide.

"No! No, that's not—!" The angel took a step towards him, anger seeping into his expression, wings still aggressively arced out.

"_Begone!_ I have no time for your tricks!" With that, the angel whipped back around, returning to his task of miracling some stone to withstand the destruction and saving as many truly holy artifacts as he could. The Serpent's shoulders slumped, and he sighed, eyes closing momentarily as he rubbed a hand in his black hair, frustrated. He frowned to himself, then shook his head and took flight.

He headed for another burning temple, but kept carefully off the holy ground. Telling himself this small work of charity would be worth it, the demon made vendors' stands fall, keeping people from rushing into the scene. He waved his hand, jettisoning a few rabbi out from under where they had been pinned in the rubble. His tattered Grace flinched at the contact with the holy men, but the Serpent grit his teeth and continued evacuating. When no one else was inside, he moved on to a church, or another temple, or a place of Sabian worship.

Hours later—when all the fires had burned out and the persecuted People of the Book were mourning their losses safely in their homes—the Serpent sat on a rock overlooking the city. He waited, watching the skies. Soon he spied the tell-tale form of a figure with wings, and in another moment the angel was standing beside him. The Serpent continued watching the city. The silence didn't last long.

"Why did you help." It was a statement of fact, nothing else, and the Serpent let a moment pass before glancing up at his foe, out of the corner of his eye.

"I needed to talk to you." The angel's brows descended, instantly suspicious, and the Serpent continued on, speaking deliberately. "I knew you wouldn't talk to me unless I proved myself trustworthy. _That_ is why I helped." The angel glared at him.

"You are a demon. _Nothing_ could make you trustworthy."

"I know that, too." He conceded this easily, but started to grin. "Despite that, you're in my debt, because I helped." The angel stiffened, but the Serpent continued on, relentless. "Luckily for you, all I want in return is for you to listen to what I have to say. Just this once. How about it?" The angel peered at him, mouth tight and drawn. The Serpent allowed his grin to shift into a leer. "Unless you'd rather I ask for something a bit more—"

"Speak, but make it quick." The demon chuckled to himself at the clipped, prissy tone, glancing out at the city with a light smile on his face. It felt more natural than it should've.

"As you command, oh Mighty Principality." The angel bristled next to him and the demon grinned devilishly to himself.

"I don't appreciate these games." The angel pointed out, a tad testily, and the Serpent sobered, shrugging.

"Right." He stood in one fluid motion, shoulders rolling back as his hands slipped into his pockets and he glanced seriously over his shoulder at the angel. "We're both tired of this stupid fighting, yeah? So I've got a proposition for you." The angel's brow started to darken in suspicion, but the Serpent ignored it, holding up a hand in a nonverbal request to finish, voice plain and matter-of-fact. "Nothing malicious, I promise. What if we just… stopped encouraging things, on such a large scale?" The Serpent waved his hand out, at Jerusalem. "Like this. _This_ is a big deal, but I could've easily stopped it before it got too far." He grinned again, showing fangs. "We can both see the paths the future could take, so you _know_ I'm right." The angel looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon, arms folding over his chest as he looked away, lips pursed in denial.

"The future is a mystery." The Serpent interjected immediately, pointing to drive it home.

"To _humans._ It was never hidden from _us_. Look, all I'm saying is that this—" He searched for the word, snapping his fingers before landing on the right one. "—_excess_ is completely unneccesary. You were right, there's no reason for it to get this bad. So why don't we agree on something like _prevention_?" The angel peered over at him, layers of engrained mistrust not quite enough to cover a flicker of curiosity.

"What are you proposing." The statement was flat, seemingly uninterested, but it still made the Serpent grin a little. He held out his hand, fingers slightly curled and the gesture open and honest.

"Nothing bad, really. Just a… pact. A deal, if you will." The angel's brows descended, his jaw set and he eyed the extended hand like a speck of dirt.

"I'll agree to nothing of the sort. Deals with demons are forbidden." The Serpent silently cursed that the angel'd caught on to that phrasing—but, no matter. His smile turned sharp, almost strained. He hated it when his advantages were neutralized, but this was too important an idea to lose over a squabble of semantics.

"Just an understanding, then. An arrangement-sort-of thing. Nothing official, nothing tying either of us but our word. How's that sound?" The angel squinted at him, otherwise unmoving.

"What kind of arrangement?" The Serpent waved his hand, outlining possible terms.

"That we tone down our influence—just a bit, don't worry—and stop making the humans do anything _too _bad or _too_ good. Y'know what I mean? Let _them _accomplish some stuff, and we can balance it out between us, yeah? Otherwise, we'd stay out of each other's affairs, and do our own stuff without getting discorporated. It's bloody nuisance, that—know what I mean? _But_, point is, we'd still be able report to Above and Below about making progress here on Earth." The Serpent plunged on, seeing the angel about to object. "No, really! It'd work, 'cause _I'd_ promise not to tempt or sow more discord than necessary, and _you'd _promise to tone down that religious do-goodedness you're so blessed talented at." The angel blinked, flushing a little at the compliment, and the Serpent felt his lips curl into a snake-like smile.

That was his mistake, as the angel immediately stiffened, the blush disappearing as he glared accusingly at the Serpent. Now—clearly indignant—his arms fell from their defensive position, hands propping themselves on his hips.

"You're just trying to fool me into a trap—it's _obvious_ you have ulterior motives." The angel sniffed, affronted. "Trusting a demon. I'm not _that_ naïve!" With a proud toss of his head, he took flight, and was gone in the blink of an eye. The Serpent stared for a moment, then blessed to himself, kicking a rock nearby in frustration. He'd almost had it! Sanctified, stubborn, suspicious angel! He snarled, fingernails digging into his own palms. So _close. _Was it too much to ask for an angel of the lord to_ trust_ a goddamned demon—just _once_?

_-__Anno Domini 1,020__-_

The Serpent didn't expect it when, eight years later (and after much behind-the-scenes fighting with each other), the angel approached _him_. His face was tight and worried, and he seemed to have received a Revelation. The Serpent asked him about it, but the angel would only shake his head and say that in the times to come, the world would _need_ some unity. So, the angel might not have been quite in his right mind when he agreed, but the Serpent wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. They shook hands, after settling on an arrangement (with slightly-altered and more detailed terms than in his original proposal) both of them could live with.

: : :

Time continued on much as it had, but over the years the ferocity of their interactions lessened. This easing of tension culminated in the Serpent sleeping through much of the 19th Century. When the Serpent found the angel after his nap, his Adversary offered up a (surprisingly not holy-water-laced) bottle of wine to greet in the new year (and new century) in 1900. The angel didn't say much, just offered the Serpent a placid smile and said it was good to have him back.

Things between them grew quieter—almost amiable—after that. The angel had settled up in London in early 1600 by opening a bookshop to help spread the Good Book, and now the Serpent bounced around to different countries, slightly unsettled by the thought of having gained a comrade. They were _Enemies_, after all, they couldn't be friends. Demons didn't _have_ friends (because if they did, they'd only be other demons or humans, and would thus stab said demon in the back). But it didn't change the fact that the Serpent found himself calling on the angel more often than not, seeking out his company and even going so far as to ask him for a favor.

It was a very specific favor, involving a meticulously-insulated thermos—what cared the Serpent for anachronisms, if they were only for his own personal use?—and a good amount of a certain liquid. It hasn't been a potent liquid to start with, really, but after the angel blessed it for him it was far more dangerous to any demon than ordinary holy water. Water blessed by angels completely purged a demon's "True Essence of Self" from existence, while water blessed by the Pope or truly pious Catholic cardinals would greatly injure (without possibility of regaining its previous power) a demon's Essence. In contrast, water blessed by common pastors or priests would only moderately injure a demon's Essence. Weakest of all, water blessed by a few words (and possibly a rosary thrown into the water, for flavor) from an ordinary human's mouth only scalded the very surface of a demon's Essence (with recovery of power quite possible, afterwards).

But this was a sidebar, a precaution, should the demon ever find himself on Hell's bad side. (He had a sneaking suspicion this fraternization with his Enemy might give cause for some sort of internal audit, and the Serpent wanted to be _prepared_, should Hastur and Ligur ever show up at his residence.) As the 1600s passed, the Serpent watched, amused, as the angel's stock dwindled. He really was a very good bookseller when he wanted to be—kind, helpful, kept his shop well-lit and even gave discounts, should his customers seem to be in dire need. After a while (once they hit the 1700s), the Serpent noticed that about half the books on the emptied shelves weren't regular Bibles. He leafed through a few, but the angel caught him and scolded him. The Serpent's brows raised, and the angel blinked, then blushed in shame, holding one of the books close to his chest, mumbling something about it having typos. He _couldn't_ sell a book with typos—it would be immoral, after all—but there really were quite a few with such typos. The Serpent made the mistake of listening to his curiosity and asking about it, and the angel's eyes lit up.

The Serpent _did_ find himself snickering at the "Thou Shalt Commit Adultery" Bible, as well as the "Buggre Alle This" Bible (even though it was tame, at best). But the angel went on and on about the rest of his collection, and the Serpent raised a brow when the angel came to the Bible where _someone_ had added three verses around the time when Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden. He peered at the angel, who smiled enigmatically. The Serpent huffed, asked if that was _really_ what the angel had said to God and smirked when the angel puffed up and insisted it was the truth.

After the first apocalypse in 1990, they finally admitted they were friends, and that their loyalties lay with one another and Earth more than anywhere else. The next few years were spent keeping under Heaven and Hell's radar, and both quietly did their accustomed lines of work, trying not to call attention to themselves by changing anything too drastically. After the rescheduled apocalypse of 2000, they conferred with each other, finding it strange that it had been ten years with no word from Above or Below. The Serpent suggested they consider themselves lucky, and from then on they let themselves relax a bit, but still kept tabs on each other, in case one should suddenly get called by their superiors.

Nothing happened, and the Serpent firmly shoved it out of his mind. The angel, however, fretted over it now and then, but never mentioned his worries to his friend. He merely settled into his old routine and kept a lookout for anything odd. (And if both he and the Serpent had inscribed Enochian on their own ribs in 1990 to avoid detection, well—Heaven and Hell were none the wiser.)

[ To reiterate and clarify the degrees of potency and respective effects of Holy Water…

Blessed by an angel: Completely disintigrates a demon (like being drenched in flesh-eating acid)

Blessed by the Pope or a Catholic cardinal: Greatly injures a demon (like a limb being melted off)

Blessed by a common pastor or priest: Moderately injuries a demon (like receiving bad burns)

Blessed by an ordinary human with a rosary: Mildly injures a demon (like being hit with boiling water) ]

~END CHAPTER THREE~


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 4/24

Word Count: 11,205

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Guardian Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Serpent of Eden, Julia Wright, Jesse Turner, Winchesters

Warning(s): Language, mention of possession.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, July 13, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_Revelation 7:13 _

_Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, "Who are these, clothed in white robes, and from where have they come?"_

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 2,006__-_

In a small bookshop in England, a man looking to be in his mid-thirties settled down in the backroom with his newest literary acquisition and a cup of steaming cocoa. The book was much like the other tomes lining the shelves of the next room, with old leather covers and yellowing pages. Smiling to himself with that self-satisfied and eager air of the ardent collector, he carefully opened it, reverently reading the title page before continuing on. He had passed a few minutes in the manner of the quiet reader, when his mobile went off in the store (buried under a large stack of books, of course). The first few bars of Handel's _Water Music_ gallantly played as best they could while muffled by hundreds of pages. The bookkeeper was so absorbed that he actually didn't notice it, and jerked almost out of his seat at the harsh ringing of the landline next to the old computer on his desk. Blinking, he glanced towards the phone, rising on the third ring and leaving his half-drunk cocoa on the coaster beside his book.

"Hello?" A pause.

_"Where's your bloody mobile __**this**__ time? The thing's no good if you don't answer it!"_ The bookkeeper's brows knitted together, and he glanced out to the storefront.

"My mobile? Oh, I'm so sorry—I saw it the other day, really. I didn't mean to ignore you, dear." A heavy sigh echoed through the phone.

"_It's lost forever, isn't it? Likely buried under a pile of your moldy old books." _The bookkeeper smiled a tad fondly at that disgruntled murmur. He slowly sat, settling into his computer chair, one leg propped over the knee of the other and absently twirling the curled telephone cord around a healthily plump finger.

"Not on purpose, you know, I've just misplaced it. Now, what's this all about? Not that I don't enjoy your calls, but I was in the midst of reading. [0] Shall I assume you're still in the States? Do you need me to cover some things over here for you?"

"_No, no, this isn't about business. It's just that—well—there're some rumors over here that've caught my attention." _The bookkeeper blinked, leaning further back in his chair. The wooden thing creaked, bottom rollers sliding it back a few centimeters.

"Rumors?"

"_About the apolcalpyse." _The phone cord twanged as it abruptly bounced free of his finger when the bookkeeper immediately stiffened, straightening with feet flat on the floor.

"Do you mean _our_—?"

"_**No!**__ No, listen. The rumors—they're about __**an**__ apocalypse: one that hasn't happened yet." _His eyes fitfully scanned the room around him as though expecting something to jump out of the corners. The bookkeeper cupped the phone's mouthpiece more earnestly to his cherubic cheek, mind working fast. Something important clicked into place.

"But Adam's actions—?" The voice on the other end turned decisive.

"_No, I checked and they definitely still hold. The thing is, there's a demon over here boasting about fathering 'the' antichrist." _The bookkeeper took a deep breath to calm himself—despite his friend's sarcastic snort over the word 'the'—gaze tilting distractedly off to the side.

"And it's a different one? You're sure?"

"_Positive. Ours is still in Tadfield. Besides, this one was born in 1998, in Elk Creek, Nebraska." _The bookkeeper blinked, brought back to the moment at such precise detail. It wasn't often that his friend was so meticulous. He'd obviously been busy.

"But—and excuse me for asking, dear boy—if that's the case, then why hasn't your side—?"

"_You remember the main issue with antichrists being their invisibility to both sides until it's too late?" _The bookkeeper felt a sinking feeling of dread coalesce in his gut.

"Er. Yes?"

"_Well, Hell lost him. So that means this new kid's sporting at least a few__of Adam's powers, possibly more." _The bookkeeper drummed his well-nourished, ink-stained fingers against the desk.

"What kind of powers? Do you know?" The other end of the line got a bit snappish.

"_I __**don't**__. Look, from what I've gathered of the situation, a demon possessed a virgin, impregnated her, took it to full term and gave birth. Things went pear-shaped when the girl managed to exorcise him right after." _The bookkeeper frowned, straightening in his seat a bit as his thoughts caught up.

"But last time it was Lucifer's child, was it not? Due to his angelic influence, Adam's power is understandable, but how is it that a _demon_ was able to impregnate by _possession_—much less result in a being powerful enough to be called another antichrist?" He heard a frustrated sigh.

"_Your guess is as good as mine, angel."_ The silence drew on, its presence almost nagging. The bookkeeper took another steadying breath, this time letting it out in a slow exhale. Even if breathing wasn't strictly necessary for either him or his associate, it certainly did help in times like this.

"Am I to suppose this means you're recruiting me?" The bookkeeper cast a wistful glance back at his (relatively) new book—still open, on the table—as his friend chuckled ruefully from his end.

"_Well, there's no one else. Besides, isn't hunting down antichrists and stopping the apocalypse shaping out to be a hobby of ours?" _He sighed, fingers tapping softly against the top of his computer desk.

"It's just such a shame to think it's only been sixteen years. I'd have hoped the world could look after itself longer. It seems as though we just settled down for some peace and quiet, and already—" His friend snorted. [1]

"_It's just our luck that six millennia passed by without a fucking hiccup, and suddenly there're two antichrists born within twenty years of each other. Fancy meeting in Nebraska, then? Noon tomorrow? The sooner we start, the better."_

"You do make a valid point. All right. Elk Creek, did you say?"

"_That's the place. …Oh, wait."_

"Yes, dearest?"

"_Don't forget your bloody mobile this time." _The bookkeeper bit back a smile, glancing out towards his storefront, tone convincingly innocent.

"I won't—provided I can locate it. There are so many books for it to hide under, you know? It's such a little thing." He heard muttered blessings from his friend—in the tone most people cursed in—and couldn't keep a slight grin from edging over his face.

"_Right bastard, you are." _With that grudging chide, it was almost as though his friend could see him. At the thought, the bookkeeper allowed himself a small smirk. They hadn't known each other for all those millennia for nothing, after all. He relented after a moment, though, clearing his throat, making his tone matter-of-fact. A few round fingertips splayed over the worn wood in front of the keyboard.

"Well, even if I am, I'm still proud of you. It's considerably noble to be taking on such an active role in saving the world, you know. Most demons wouldn't bother trying the _first_ time, much less the second." There were a few beats of silence, and then more half-hearted grumblings.

"_You didn't have to lay it on so __**thick**__." _Stifled embarrassment edged his friend's voice like paranoia, and the bookkeeper's smile grew softly fond.

"My _dear_, you—"

"_And while we're at it, I'm only doing this for the food and entertainment up here, got that? __**Nothing**__ else. Satisfying my own 'want and selfish gladness' comes first and foremost, and I __**like**__ my expensive restaurants and suits and morality-rotting TV, thank-you-very-much."_ The bookkeeper's gaze had wandered over the room as his friend heaped on the denial, a fleshy finger absently curling into the spirals of the telephone cord, again. That smile now hovered somewhere between (rather) genuinely amused and (a touch) quietly impatient. He had a long book to finish and a shop to close before he could leave tomorrow at noon, after all.

"Yes, of course. I'll see you soon. Take care."

"_Don't get lost in your book and forget the time." _The angel blinked, then blushed a little in shame [2], the cord curling a hint tighter as his voice turned a tad flustered.

"I won't, don't be silly!" He could've sworn he heard a derisive snort from the other end, but it was just as likely that his ruffled state was merely playing tricks on him.

"_We'll see. Ciao."_

[1] The bookkeeper sighed to himself at the second hint—see first hint at [0]—obviously careening clear over his friend's head. _Honestly. _It might be the end of the world (again), but was it such a crime to savor a little reading time?

[2] Firstly, at his friend being so observant when he thought his hints had been ignored, secondly, at being caught indulging in a noticeably-unangelic bout of irritation and thirdly—well—the dear boy was a _demon_, after all. It was a point of his nature to make angels uncomfortable.

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 2,007__-_

"This is the one, I _know_ it." The demon (youngish-looking, with well-defined cheekbones, sunglasses and short slicked-back black hair) assured as they pulled into the driveway leading down to a ramshackle farmhouse surrounded by an overgrown fence. The angel (with blue eyes, a pleasantly round face and short blond wavy hair that fell just over his ears) seated beside him in the vintage 1926 black Bentley sighed, casting a sidelong Look towards his companion as the car stopped.

"Really, dearest, and I thought you_ despised_ optimism." The demon flashed a quick grin as he pulled the handbrake.

"Only in others, angel. Besides, it's a town of ninety-eight people. Forty-eight are of the feminine persuasion, and we've interviewed nearly every one who's been of child-bearing age since 1998. That's _including _the bracket of ten-to-fourteen-year-old girls, as disturbing as the thought might be." His face contorted in a wince, for a moment, and the angel smiled at him. The demon caught sight of it, but waved him off, hurriedly looking away and clearing his throat. [3]

"A-Anyway, we're almost finished. It has to be one of the next two." A piece of paper appeared in his hand, and the demon sat back in the right-hand driver's seat, eyes flicking over the names. Most were crossed out, as were the corresponding addresses, and the first had been _Ackerly, Melinda_. Down at the bottom, past some thirty names, all that remained were _Wright, Julia_ and _Wunsch, Anne_. He didn't notice as the angel quietly began to peruse the aura of the house, and abruptly stiffened in his seat.

"Oh. Oh, _my_." The demon glanced up, frowning as he noted the quiet sorrow creeping over the angel's face.

"What is it?" But the angel only continued to stare, expression growing more troubled, wrinkle and laugh lines deepening by the second. Just as the demon opened his mouth to fill the silence, the angel unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed the door handle and was walking across the yard with the purposeful steps of someone on a mission. The demon's mouth snapped shut as he blinked, and then just materialized in front of the dead-vine-encrusted white gate. He eyed the cheap scrap metal sign proclaiming "NO TRESPASSING" in words that looked to have been scrawled on with a dried-out red permanent marker. He wrinkled his nose in silent disdain as his gaze traveled over to the peeling white paint on the siding of the house, and his well-tailored black suit cringed in stylish disgust. The angel determinedly strode past him, bursting through the gate with a clang and all the resolve and delicacy of a mother bear going to the aid of her cubs (or, rather, 'cub', as it were). The polished demon slipped neatly in behind him, carefully avoiding brushing against anything.

Everything looked as though it had gone to seed about five years ago. Uncut field grass nearly obscured the path, threatening to brush against his shins, and the demon scowled darkly down at the plants, willing them not to deposit their seeds on his pristine black trousers and black snakeskin boots. They cringed appropriately, curling into themselves in the angel's wake and carefully not putting a tendril out of place until the demon had passed by. There was a side door, but at a glance you could tell it hadn't been used in years, and they kept on ahead until they came to what was properly the back porch, the stout angel briskly bustling up the stairs and rapping smartly on the old wood.

"Miss Wright? Miss Wright! Do please open the door—" The wiry demon was more guarded in his approach, remaining at the bottom of the steps and taking a slow panoramic glance around them. His eyes narrowed behind his black sunglasses at both the glare of the light and the high brambles that obscured his vision. A nervous voice answered the angel's greeting, and the demon's eyes flicked back to the door, then up. The corner of his mouth pulled in a slight smirk.

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested!" The angel seemed to pause, baffled, and cast a helpless glance back at his friend. Hands in his pockets, the demon shrugged his shoulders—countenance now offering nothing but mild nonchalance—and otherwise didn't move. The angel's face turned perplexed, for a moment—likely at why his friend wasn't getting any closer—but he turned around to address the door nonetheless, voice soft and kind.

"No—No, I'm not selling anything, Miss Wright. I—you've been through a horrible experience, and been so strong, haven't you, dear lady? I'm so sorry." Silence. Still, he pressed on, setting a palm against the door and peering—probably '_soulfully'_, sod it all—into the peephole, a reassuring smile in his voice. The demon fought the urge to roll his eyes, and fancied the angel could feel her pain through the wood. The whole place was certainly soaked enough in it.

"Please, my dear. We won't hurt you, you have my word. My companion and I have only a few questions, and then we'll leave you alone, I promise." More silence, but the thin curtains in the window to the right of the door moved after a moment or two. The demon's eyes snapped there on engrained instinct, and for a moment the pale, scared face of a traumatized woman stared back at him. But the angel had seen the movement, too, and hurried over to the window, blocking the demon's view as his plump hands clasped before him in supplication. The demon could only too easily visualize that the angel's face was currently radiating warmth and love, his eyes pure, glimmering jewels of endless compassion and grief—the combination of which inspired nothing but trust. [4]

"W-Who are you?" Her skittish voice was muffled, defensive. The angel placed his palm on the grimy glass of the window, ever-so-gently so as not to spook the frail lady more. He was probably close to_ straining_ something in order to make his smile even more sincere.

"My name is Aziraphale. I am an angel, Miss Wright. _Do_ please unlock the door? We really need to speak with you." The demon guessed that her eyes flickered over the angel, wary and conflicted, but likely already full of hesitant belief. (He _did_ tend to have that effect.) Then she glanced over Aziraphale's shoulder.

"W-What about—?" The angel blinked, and spared the demon a hasty glance, the cast-back brief smile a bit harried.

"Who, Crowley? He shan't hurt you either, dear." More silence.

"Do _please_ let us in? We wouldn't be bothering you if we didn't truly need to—I'm sure we're imposing in the worst way—but I can _assure_ you—" Honestly, this grew wearisome. The demon sighed to himself, and began to stride up the steps. He felt her panic at his sudden advance, and smirked as she disappeared from the window, hiding, voice shrill.

"W-Wait, how do I know you're—!"

The door, seven locks and all (honestly, as paranoids went, she was_ thorough_) suddenly burst open, causing the angel to jerk and the woman to shriek in surprise. She jumped back, eyes wide with fright as the demon sauntered in as though he owned the place. He inclined his head back—indicating the top of the doorway behind him—but never took his eyes off her, unable to help a malicious little grin.

"You might want to turn that horseshoe over. It's no good as a demon repellant with the prongs facing upward." She gasped, wan face going even whiter, and his forked tongue subconsciously flicked out over his bottom lip to taste the sudden fear in the air. It seized her eyes like a viper. Crowley noticed, and played his petrified audience like a fine golden harmonica [5]. "Notss sssatss you have a blacksssmiss handy, buts, well, you're human—can'ts sssinkss of _everyssssing_."

He thought he might have overdone it a bit, but then she turned tail and ran. Crowley's evil leer shifted into a cheekily satisfied smile once she couldn't see him anymore. He mentally patted himself on the back for still being able to scare the bejesus out of mortals. Aziraphale not-entirely-accidentally bumped his shoulder as the angel rushed past, sparing the demon only a glare as he called after her. Unperturbed, said demon followed at a more leisurely pace.

"Miss Wright! Please, Miss Wright, he may be a demon but he's entirely trustw—" There was the sound of something shaking, then a pause. Aziraphale sounded baffled. "Was that _salt_?" The out-of-breath and slightly hysterical panting—which Crowley heard as he came to the end of the long hall, rounded the corner, walked through the doorway into a larger room, and caught sight of Aziraphale standing on the threshold of another doorway—he assumed to be the woman's, her eyes huge and round in stunned disbelief. The demon warily eyed the scattered white granules spread around and over the angel's shoes.

"You—You're not a demon?" Crowley could_ feel_ Aziraphale's befuddled blink, even staring at the back of the angel's head from an out-of-range-of-tossed-salt distance away.

"Didn't I say I was an angel?" Said angel moved forward, very slowly, and kindly took the woman's hand. Some color was beginning to return to her face, the fear in her eyes gradually wakening to awe as warm, ink-stained fingers softly touched her temple. Crowley knew which smile Aziraphale was soothing her with. His voice, genuine as sunshine, gave it all away.

"Be not afraid, dear lady. No harm shall come to you in my presence." The angel wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and took her closest wrist in his other hand, gently tucking her into his side and coaxing her out from the kitchen. Crowley subtly backed up, warily eying the salt-filled cylinder she yet clung to, and her eyes flitted to him. Her entire body flinched away in terror, and were it not for Aziraphale's firm hold, he knew she would've bolted again.

"B-But he—" The angel gave him a reproachful stare [6], and the demon coughed into his hand, looking away. Aziraphale returned to comforting her, whispering assurances against her hair.

"There now, Miss, you shouldn't worry, he's a _good_ demon—even if he denies it—but I have to tell you, sometimes his… nature gets the better of him_. Isn't that right, dearest_?" Those blue eyes narrowed at him over her head as the angel settled the fragile thing in a chair at the table and Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Still, he recognized a warning when he saw one, didn't_ really_ want to have Aziraphale miffed with him over something like _this_, and so bit out what the angel wanted him to say.

"Er, yes. Sorry. Couldn't resist." She looked up, suspicious, and the demon gave her a crooked, awkward-feeling smile. "Old habits die hard, you know. No hard feelings?" She scowled at him, fingers tightening on the can of salt and Crowley took another—appropriately measured—step _back_. This impression of power seemed to make her relax, and she straightened in her seat, glancing up at Aziraphale as the angel patted her on the shoulder, beaming.

"There we are, all made up. Now then, dear—I know it might be asking too much, but would you happen to have any tea?" She stared at him, like she couldn't believe an _angel_ was asking her _that_, of all things—but after a moment, a tentative smile started to bloom on her thin face.

"Oh, would you like—? I'm sorry, where are my manners—" She made to rise, but the angel hastily fluttered at her, hands flapping with overblown worry. She looked a little startled at his vehemence, but sat back down anyway.

"No, no, miss, after Crowley gave you such a fright it's the least I can do. No, you just sit here, and if you would be so kind as to point me to the cupboards with the needed accessories, we'll have a nice cup of tea and talk this over like civilized beings, shall we?" As Aziraphale turned to said cupboards, Miss Wright's voice timid in stilted directions, Crowley felt himself relax at that familiar sight [7]—then dismissed the nostalgia with an ease bourne of long habit. He ducked down the hall towards the porch door, voice just loud enough to project and disrupt the cozy atmosphere.

"You're hardly civilized without some sort of sweet, angel." Knowing Aziraphale knew what _that_ meant, the demon grinned back at Miss Wright. She froze—likely at his sharpened teeth—and he turned his back to her, hiding his resulting smirk. "Don't start the party without me."

"Oh, I would never! And _thank_ you, dearest! Biscuits would be lovely!" Aziraphale was far-too-delighted to be free of any ulterior motives, his obtensibly 'angelic' tone paving the way for— "I'm so proud of you. Such a thoughtful_, generous _offer." Crowley winced at the 'compliment' and cast a glare at his friend. But Aziraphale only sent him a fond smile in return, so he settled for hissing softly in displeasure. The demon coiled into himself and twisted away, snarling under his breath as he strode off.

"Bugger off, you manipulative bastard."

[3] It was an effective (if mostly due to precedent) dismissal of the subject with the usual embarrassment the demon tended to exhibit after showing some degree of moral fiber. Really, the angel couldn't understand why his friend tried _so hard_ to hide the fact he was a good person.

[4] Really, it was sickening, how predictable the angel was when it came to matters of humans and their sodding 'emotional fragility'.

[5] The only instrument he'd been allowed to play, much to the jeering amusement of the other demons who got things like golden _fiddles _or golden _saxophones _or the _blessed golden_ _electric guitar_ Hastur had lorded over him (quite literally, in both rank _and_ boasting). Well, it could've been worse. Crowley _could've _got stuck with the bloody golden kazoo (_again_, as in his first [rather serpentine, and arms-less and legs-less and fingers-less] body, that's all he could play). Thank Manchester that Beëlzebub had eventually claimed _that _instrument all for himself, and given Crowley a body that actually had _hands _and _feet_. (…Among other things. Oh, had _that _been a night to remember.)

[6] Which is, to say, the kind of reproachful stare only doddering old literature professors have a right to wear (much like tweed). This look is used especially when a student has unthinkingly—and in the presence of said professor—admitted to a minorly illegal offense which would not benefit said student if law enforcement were to interfere at this point, and said professor _certainly_ wouldn't wish to get said student in any _real_ trouble—as they're a good child, deep down, really—but said professor still _disapproves_. So, thus: the patented stare is born. Aziraphale really _had_ had quite a range of vocations besides bookkeeper over the past sixty centuries (that's six-hundred decades, Pip), but had indeed ceaselessly proven himself to be remarkably adept at this particular expression. [8]

[7] Which was, of course, Aziraphale absent-mindedly hunting for tea amidst well-worn wooden cupboards, his back highlighted with streaks of dust-coated sunshine.

[8] It also should be noted that, for an angel, Aziraphale had made great strides to meet humanity at some sort of angel-human cultural half-way point. Take, for example, his tireless affection for the gavotte, despite the inexpressible disappointment he felt when it went out of style (this being yet another reason he treats tartan-patterned attire with the dogged determination of those who have given up on ever being fashionable and have simply decided to stick [or, perhaps more accurately, _cling_] to what they like, and will defend its once-commonly-lauded attributes to their dying day [which, for essentially immortal beings, conveniently falls under the designation of _'a_ _very long time!'_].). There was no other angel who had even come _close_ to being in the same _category _as Aziraphale. To be quite Frank (and not Peter, Paul or Mary), the nearest any other angel had come to rivaling Aziraphale's aptitude for the gavotte was when Hariel had half-stumbled over a scroll two thousand years ago, in Records (elegance on the battlefield is not applicable in this comparison). Not the _least_ to say about Aziraphale's fashion sense, for when you compare _tartan_ to Heaven's Colors Of Choice (being mainly along the lines of beige, pearly white and tan), one begins to slowly have a grudging understanding for where Aziraphale's sense of taste comes from. Perhaps the poor angel was merely compensating. Or Rebelling. But Rebelling with tartan and the gavotte, as one knows very well, isn't quite Rebelling enough to be noted by Senior Management, thank God [the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, in His Glory We Sing Praises Most High] in His infinite wisdom for _that_.

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 2,007__-_

After he'd spoken with Miss Wright and learned of her nine-year-old son's whereabouts, Aziraphale had gently explained that she needed to relocate. She'd been understandably upset about it—mostly over leaving the house she'd grown up in—but he was firm in stating that it was necessary. He held her hand between his and quietly revealed that she was in grave danger from demons who wished to locate her child for the coming apocalypse. With her permission, the angel had placed a hand on her and impressed the black anti-possession tattoo into her skin, to guard against future attempts. He suggested she head to Canada, well out of range of the American government's register, and that he would accompany her and ensure she had a safe place to live. Essentially, the angel recreated the house (albeit a younger, more well-kept version of it) somewhere in the Yukon Territory, and then went through and furnished it with furniture identical to her own (minus the thick layers of dust and wear, of course).

With another snap, Aziraphale carved a Devil's Trap deep into the underside of the porch (and on the inside of the doors), infused the outer walls and windows with salt, and placed a carefully _downwards_-facing horseshoe over the main entrance. With a final, wearied smile, he hugged the poor dear and gingerly—again, with her permission—blurred her memories. Her name was now Julia Caruthers, and her few neighbors could attest to the fact she'd been living in the Yukon for many years. Her memory of the possession—too terrible to eradicate entirely—was brushed over with a vague unpleasantness that only explained the origin of her tattoo and why her house had so many pentagrams. Their only witness successfully hidden, the tired angel flew himself back to Nebraska, materializing in the passenger seat of the Bentley waiting outside the now-nonexistant Julia Wright's abandoned house.

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 2,007__-_

The ride to Alliance, Nebraska, was quiet. The strains of _Queen_ played softly in the background as Aziraphale stared out the window, Crowley sneaking furtive glances at him out of the side of his sunglasses. The angel was unusually somber, not even touching the half-gone package of sweets lying between his feet. His well-manicured hands were folded neatly in his lap, gaze distant and contemplative. A few times the demon almost spoke, only to remain silent and refocus back on the road. Whenever some American came barrelling down towards them—driving at them on the wrong (left) side—the demon casually shifted both driver and car into the right lane, the Bentley speeding past them on the correct (left) side of the road. [9]

It was more unsettling that Aziraphale was so deep in thought, he didn't make so much as a _peep_ about safe driving habits as Crowley very extravagantly flaunted his lack of them. At least there were no pedestrians (lucky for _them_, if the angel wasn't with-it enough to fret Crowley's blessed ear off as the demon swept cars into the opposite lane [10]). As the Bentley ambled into the driveway of the address Miss Wright had given them, Crowley shut off his iPod [11] with a thought and Aziraphale took a deep breath.

"Crowley." The demon glanced over, noticing the angel was staring down at his perfectly manicured hands. "This could be dangerous." The demon huffed a laugh, casting an uneasy smirk out of the window to his right.

"_Really_, angel? I'd have thought paying another antichrist a visit was the _safer_ route." Aziraphale looked up at him, grey-blue eyes troubled, and Crowley bit his tongue. The angel's lips pursed in worry, and he glanced back down, fingers tightening against each other.

"He's only a child, you know. How will we explain this to him?" The demon sighed, reaching out with his left hand to awkwardly pat the angel on the shoulder. He looked off again, uncomfortable.

"Well, you know. Uh. You did pretty well with Miss Wright, and she was a nervous wreck. Can't be too hard convincing a nine-year-old he holds the keys to existence, right?" There was silence, and Crowley started when he felt a hand cover his own. He jerked it back, snake-slit yellow eyes wide behind his sunglasses. But Aziraphale was smiling, just slightly, his fingers lifted a few inches off his shoulder over where Crowley's hand had rested. His gaze seemed to slide off the demon, after a moment.

"Ah. Yes—Yes, you're right." The angel took a quick breath, shutting his eyes momentarily and squaring his shoulders. Crowley huffed.

"Of _course_ I'm right, idiot."

"Delicacy, that's the ticket." Aziraphale muttered it like a prayer, not even seeming to hear him. The angel opened his car door, swatted it shut behind him and started to stride purposefully off towards the house before he realized Crowley hadn't followed. Aziraphale glanced back at the Bentley, and the demon grinned anxiously from behind the wheel, raising a hand in a light wave.

"Er. Figured I'd wait here, as back-up—see how it goes?" The angel glared at him, and Crowley deflated, giving up and materializing beside Aziraphale. Hands in his pockets, he scowled up at the house.

"Oh, fine." The angel shook his head at him.

"_Honestly,_ Crowley." But the demon noticed Aziraphale was hiding another smile as he resumed heading up to the front porch. Still, Crowley skulked after him, kicking stones from the path into the grass ("All the better to ruin you with, mower-my-dear") and muttering under his breath.

"Guess it wouldn't be existence if he poofed you out of it and left me alone to deal with this mess, anyway. Bugger." A soft chuckle greeted that curse, and the angel paused before the front door to peer at the demon over his shoulder, gaze affectionate and smile sincere, suffusing the air with warmth. Crowley felt a little tingle in the back of his neck, but before he could say anything, the angel spoke.

"Stiff upper lip, dear boy." Aziraphale turned and knocked.

[9] Crowley knew perfectly well, of course, that Americans drove on the right side of the road. He'd simply acquired a taste for the British tendency, and—on long remote stretches of road in America (such as the one they were currently driving on)—tended to revert to driving on the left side. It also had the added bonus of first-surprising-then-angering the other driver, and when would Crowley ever pass up a chance to do low-grade evil?

[10] like they were something thin that came in boxes and were spelled with four-fifths of the same letters.

[11] A sixth-generation, 160-GB sleek silver iPod Classic, to be precise. Cassette decks had gone out of style along with tucking in one's shirt, CD players were for the post-apocalypse-born hipster crowd, and Crowley was nothing if not up-to-date on the humans' latest technological innovations. Never mind that any song played more than fifty times turned into a _Queen_ hit, because that was easy enough to fix. (He wiped the memory on the iPod by plugging it into the computer and then unplugging it, so everything was re-synced. The only reason this didn't fail was because Crowley naturally assumed that's how iTunes libraries_ worked, _and never bothered to get as far as thinking that actually turning the computer _on_ might be a prerequisite. Of course, that didn't mean he didn't lazily put-_off_ re-syncing it for as long as he could stand it. As an added bonus, Crowley always assumed he had the latest version of technology, and so he _did. _In 2005, Crowley's fourth-generation iPod Classic had become a fifth-generation iPod Classic.) But anyway, as a result, he didn't lose all his music the way his cassettes had gone, before. And yet, it was a sad constant fact that Hell _still_ preferred interrupting whatever he was listening to in order to communicate with him, and that _never_ stopped being annoying. Especially since everyone had cell phones, now. It was bloody 2007, for Manchester's sake!

: : :

_-__Anno Domini 2,007__-_

The woman who answered the door was a far cry from Julia Wright-now-Caruthers. Her hair was dark, face worn from much work but still healthy and pleasant. Aziraphale smiled warmly at her, but Crowley impatiently elbowed him aside and snapped his fingers in her face. Her expression went blank and the demon ignored the scolding look Aziraphale fixed him with.

"Where is the boy?" The woman's voice was impassive.

"In the backyard, with my husband." Crowley nodded and pushed past her. Aziraphale murmured something to her, and the woman walked into the living room, presumably to sit on the couch and fall asleep. He caught up with Crowley just as the demon reached the back door, and grabbed his arm, hissing.

"What are you _doing?_ We don't want to invoke his wrath!" Crowley scowled at him.

"_Look, _I didn't do her any harm and you _had_ your way with the miss in Elk Creek. Now it's my turn. His powers haven't started to manifest, yet, so there's nothing to fear." His hand fell on the handle, snake-slit eyes behind his sunglasses peering in through the window, zoning in on the two humans running around on the grass. Aziraphale's voice was close to his ear, his hold on the demon's arm tightening.

"_Crowley._ Just because he hasn't grown into his powers doesn't mean it's a good idea to—" The demon flashed him a cocksure grin, leaning in to whisper conspirationally.

"Ever heard of _Good Cop, Bad Cop_?" Aziraphale looked puzzled.

"…is that a board game?" Crowley rolled his eyes, the drama of the moment ruined.

"_No. _It's a tactic that American policemen stereotypically use." The demon waved his hand, vaguely. "I'll greet the kid like an enemy, scare him a bit, and you come in and act…" He trailed off as the angel continued to stare at him, uncomprehending. Crowley sighed the sigh of the long-suffering, patted the angel's shoulder and turned the handle, stepping out into the backyard while muttering under his breath. "Just act like yourself, Zira."

Predictably, the boy's father spotted Crowley instantly and immediately went on the offensive, striding towards him while raising his voice in inquiry and challenge. Aziraphale dithered behind the back door, unsure of how to proceed and paralyzed with indecision as he watched Crowley snap his fingers in the man's face disinterestedly, not breaking stride. The man immediately froze, arms falling limp by his sides, unmoving. The child's eyes widened in fear, but Crowley walked right up to him, staring down at the boy. After a moment, the demon raised his hand. Aziraphale panicked as he saw demonic power crackle between the demon's fingers and burst out from the back door. He sprinted across the yard to catch Crowley's wrist and shove him away from the child, tone chiding and slightly out-of-breath.

"_Crowley! _A-Are you thinking at _all?_ _What_, praytell, were you—you planning to do just now?_" _Crowley winced as he sat up, then—unexpectedly—cowered in fear, lifting an arm over his head as though to ward off a blow. Aziraphale's eyebrows rose high on his forehead.

"Oh, please forgive me, Mighty Angel!" Said 'Mighty Angel's lips parted in mystified surprise, and a corner of Crowley's mouth quirked up even as he didn't miss a beat and only continued to wail pathetically. "I knew not what I was doing! Please show mercy on this unworthy soul! I have seen the error of my ways, and repent!" At that, Crowley crawled up to the angel and bent down as though to start kissing his loafers. Aziraphale kicked at him, brows finally descending in annoyance as Crowley gave a melodramatic shriek. "Oh, I am smote!" The demon also exaggerated the force of said kick, body arcing through the air until he landed, supine, on the grass. Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, then squatted down to prod at the demon's foot. It twitched. The angel sighed, and turned to give a strained smile to the wide-eyed boy beside him.

"You are Jesse Turner, yes? My name is Aziraphale. I am an angel." He tipped his head, allowing his halo to manifest (and took a small, unkind bit of satisfaction as Crowley grunted in pain at the holy light and curled up on his side, trying to limit the exposure). Aziraphale patted the poor demon's thigh. "This is Crowley. He is my…" A brow quirked, and a very small smile curled over the angel's face. "Apprentice." Aziraphale heard Crowley gurgle in shock and slowly stood, sighing the sigh of the much-put-upon. "I am sorry for the trouble, dear lad, but he _is_ still in training and has yet to learn to curb his more engrained impulses. Isn't that right, _my dear?" _To the point, the angel let the holy light emanating from him spike, almost blindingly. Crowley groaned in pain, only daring to peer out from the shade of his arm with a hiss, eyes narrowed. After a moment, Aziraphale dimmed his Grace so it wouldn't burn him anymore, feeling the lesson had been taught.

"Yes, Sir." The demon murmured glumly, moving to sit up, shoulders slouched forward. Aziraphale pressed a hand to Crowley's shoulder, stood, released him and turned to face the boy. Jesse was squinting at them.

"If you're an angel, where're your wings?" Aziraphale smiled indulgently, and allowed them to manifest, spreading out on either side of him. The wind from the unfurling ruffled both Crowley and Jesse's hair, and the nine-year-old's eyes widened. He stepped forward, and lifted a hand to touch the feathers. Aziraphale dipped his wing in permission (and for easier access), smiling at the awe on the young boy's face.

"I speak the truth, dear lad." Jesse turned to him, fingers still reverently brushing over Aziraphale's wing.

"But… why? What do you want?" The angel smiled very gently, and bent down to Jesse's level, hands braced on his own knees. Aziraphale called his wings back. His Radiance also lessened noticeably and, unheard, Crowley breathed a sigh of relief.

"You are a very special boy, Jesse Turner. Crowley and I are to watch over you."

_-__Annis Domini 2,007 ad 2,008__-_

Very gradually, Aziraphale explained to Jesse the events surrounding his birth while Crowley kept watch from a distance. (Lest Hell contact him, and sense the antichrist nearby.) At the boy's insistence, they even paid a visit to Julia Caruthers in Canada—invisible, of course—so Jesse could at least see his biological mother. As 2007 gave way to 2008, Aziraphale was sure to keep the family operating normally, and only appeared to Jesse when his parents were out. They worked late often, leaving the boy to fend for himself, and the angel was all too happy to take on the role of part-time caretaker. Aziraphale became more than just a friend, with Jesse viewing him like a treasured uncle. The boy listened with rapt attention to everything he said, especially as Aziraphale cautioned Jesse to beware of his blossoming powers. There were a few isolated incidents, but on the whole Jesse was getting a good handle on them and learning to control his influence over his surroundings.

Crowley did not interact nearly as much with Jesse as Aziraphale did. Jesse treated the demon with a sort of kind negligence, while Crowley tried to stay out of the boy's way as much as possible. He continued the show of being Aziraphale's 'apprentice', but it wasn't as excruciating as it could have been. Aziraphale wasn't cruel about it—he acted like a benevolent master to an apprentice in front of Jesse, but elsewhere clearly still considered Crowley an equal. The angel also instilled a certain degree of respect in Jesse for Crowley, saying something about 'how a man treats his inferiors', but the demon secretly suspected it to be a preservation technique. After all, if Jesse respected Aziraphale and Aziraphale told Jesse Crowley was worthy of respect, the kid would listen. (And probably not destroy Crowley on a whim.)

Behind the scenes (and after the first few months), Aziraphale seemed perplexed about something. Crowley tried asking him about it, but was waved away as the angel dismissed it as nothing. Soon, though, Aziraphale started making trips while Jesse was in school, leaving Crowley to 'mind the house', as it were. The angel returned looking worried, and Crowley again pressed him for information. But Aziraphale was stubborn, and said—quite firmly—that he would not share what he had found until he was absolutely certain about it. So Crowley's curiosity gnawed away at him until finally, one cool morning in 2009, Aziraphale joined him on the roof as Jesse rumbled safely down the block in the school bus.

_-__Anno Domini 2,009__-_

"There are more angels on Earth." Aziraphale stated this very calmly, not reacting as Crowley nearly fell off the roof beside him. The demon clambered back up, eyes narrow and nervous.

"What?" The angel heaved a sigh, and glanced towards his friend, expression troubled.

"I trust you've received the changed date for the apocalypse?" Crowley frowned.

"Yeah, so?" Aziraphale smiled, a little bitterly.

"Has anyone else _mentioned_ the change?" Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it. He stared.

"You can't mean—" Aziraphale looked away, his tight shoulders radiating restrained anger.

"I believe Heaven has wiped the minds of its subordinates after every failed apocalypse."

"What? But… No, there was ours, then Y2K, and now—"

"The date is set for May 21, 2011, yes." Aziraphale interrupted crisply, shaking his head in awe at the arrogance of his superiors. "No one else seems to notice when they change the date. Everyone just _obeys_. Has your side—?"

"Now that you mention it, people aren't really complaining—you_ really_ think they—?"

"I do. And for some reason, due to Adam's influence or—"

"Whatever it is, _we're_ the only ones that remember these updates, you mean?" The angel nodded.

"Yes. Aside from Father, Metatron, the Archangels and Lucifer, most likely."

"Right…" Crowley drummed his fingers on the roof, thinking. "But what's this have to do with there being more angels on Earth? Aren't there usually some floating around?" Aziraphale shook his head, a few plump fingers smoothing out creases in his trousers, distractedly.

"Not this many. Not in human form. Heaven is planning something, and _part_ of their plan is to have angels stationed on Earth in human vessels." Crowley jerked, making a noise of surprise.

"_What? _Vessels! But those haven't been used since—"

"The Son was on Earth. It's been two millennia, I'm aware." Angelic fingers started to pluck, fretingly, at a fraying thread. "I don't know what it means—the Orders weren't given to _me_, you know. But it seems like they're all of captain Grace-levels, so that means Heaven wants angels on Earth who _will_ obey but_ can_ command." Crowley hissed uneasily to himself at this information.

"How long have they been here, Zira?" Aziraphale heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

"I can't be sure, dear. But—" The angel suddenly straightened, back stiff. Crowley peered at him.

"What's wrong?" But Aziraphale wasn't listening to him, grey-blue eyes narrowed and staring straight ahead, fingers twisting sharply into the material of his trousers. Crowley remained perfectly still, watching him warily as, after a few minutes, Aziraphale's Grace started to fluctuate. The invisible shield around them rippled, and at that the demon finally raised a hand, carefully shaking the angel's shoulder and wincing when the contact burned his fingertips. "_Zira." _The angel blinked, and looked at him. His Grace returned to normal, and Crowley relaxed as the pain in his fingers disappeared, smiling a little. "You all right?" Aziraphale frowned slightly, but nodded, turning away again.

"Yes, of course. It's just…" Crowley let his fingers slip down, briefly squeezing the angel's upper arm.

"What?" Aziraphale's brows furrowed as the angel heaved a frustrated sigh, bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I can't determine how long they've been on Earth. Their Grace is interacting oddly with their vessels, and I can't feel a human soul." Crowley hissed, immediately drawing conclusions and cutting off Aziraphale's quiet gasp of realization.

"Ssey _wouldn'ts._"

"Now, Crowley—" The demon grit his teeth, shaking his head, yellow eyes glowing behind dark lenses as he pulled the angel around to face him.

"_Tell_ me those hallowed bastards _wouldn't_ consume a vessel's soul just so they could have the body!" Aziraphale winced as the demon's hold on his arm tightened unconsciously and lifted a hand to rest over the whitened knuckles, leaning to meet the demon's enraged stare, eyes calm and voice quiet and sure.

"_Crowley. _I did not sense that they'd consumed the soul. I merely said there _wasn't_ one." The demon growled.

"What's the difference?" Aziraphale's fingers squeezed his, in comfort.

"There would be a residual imprint of the consumption. Other angels can tell if a brother has consumed or touched a soul—to merely touch one is a different imprint, and what I'm sensing. They haven't _consumed_ the souls, so it must be that they only… directed them away." Aziraphale's voice dropped, almost mumbling to himself. "But _how_ could a common angel direct a human soul away from its body, when the two merge at birth?" Crowley let out a harsh laugh, another insight leaping upon him.

"Maybe it never merged in the first place." He grinned as the angel blinked at him, startled, but the pieces were starting to slot into place. Aziraphale's tone was thoughtful.

"It's _possible_, at least." Crowley snorted, releasing his hold and shaking the angel's hand off.

"Self-righteous bastards. Stealing bodies and redirecting souls just so they can have soldiers ready on Earth?" Aziraphale sighed beside him, shaking his head silently.

"And we still don't know why. What could be the point?" Crowley grinned, fingertips tapping edgily over the roof tiles beneath him.

"We've got two years to find out, angel."

_-__Anno Domini 2,010__-_

After Jesse's twelfth birthday, Aziraphale told him about Adam Young, and encouraged the boy to talk to him, as Adam had a much better idea of how to be both an antichrist and a normal person than either Aziraphale or Crowley did. Things continued to go smoothly. Jesse developed, getting better at control even if he subconsciously slipped, at times. He hadn't contacted Adam, yet, but Aziraphale decided it was best to let the boy make his own decisions as he grew older. Crowley kept an eye on demons in the area and Aziraphale traveled further and further during the day while Jesse was at school, locating more angels the more ground he covered. He was well-versed in keeping himself invisible to his brothers (he'd been on Earth for over six thousand years, after all) and so managed to gather information without being discovered. One time he was gone for a few days, however, and Crowley was forced to 'make nice' with Jesse in his absence, assuring the boy that Aziraphale was fine even as he himself hummed with worry.

Aziraphale returned after three days, looking a little worse for wear but sporting a tired smile, nonetheless. He assured Crowley he was fine, just a little unexpected bump, but sharp eyes noticed the remains of Grace not his own—as though the Principality had gone a few rounds with another angel. Still, Aziraphale firmly insisted it was nothing to worry about, and in the end Crowley had to let it go.

_-__Anno Domini 2,010, May__-_

A month passed, and Crowley kept up his usual protective vigil, sitting on the roof of the house (invisible, of course) and unabashedly taking advantage of the hot Nebraska sun. His serpentine eyes narrowed as an old black car—a Chevy, but in impressive condition—parked at the end of the block. Two tall men in suits emerged from it, the car doors squeaking as they shut, and Crowley felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut as they approached the first house at the end of the block. As they went door-to-door, getting closer all the time, Crowley grew more anxious. By the time they reached the Turners' mailbox, he was a man-shaped puddle of nerves.

Jesse was home, his parents still at work, and Aziraphale was in the kitchen, making dinner as the boy did his homework. A nagging feeling in the back of his head caused Crowley to slowly slide behind the crest of the roof, watching as the two men bickered with each other as they hopped off the sidewalk and up the steps. Something seemed familiar about them—_unsettlingly _familiar. Either way, Crowley knew he had to warn Aziraphale, and so he glided down to the kitchen window just as the doorbell rang. He slipped easily inside, went visible, and caught Aziraphale's arm as he was about to go answer it, shaking his head. The angel frowned at him, but nodded for Jesse to go get the door. (_They_ couldn't answer it, anyway, of course—as far as the neighbors knew, only three people lived in this house, and neither a bookish man in his thirties nor a stylish man in his twenties were one of them.) They both kept an ear out for Jesse's conversation, but also held their own.

"Crowley?" The demon shushed him, pulling the angel along towards the back door, gaze shifty.

"Something's not right." Voices could be heard down the hall, and Crowley felt a cold sweat break out over his forehead. "We should get out of here." His intuition had kept him alive more often than not. Predictably, Aziraphale couldn't feel the strained atmosphere, at all. Concerned, the angel lifted the back of his hand to the demon's clammy forehead.

"Are you all right, dear? You're paler than usual—would you like a cup of tea?" Crowley almost _screamed_ at the angel, wanted to shake some sense into him, but his paranoia-senses were going haywire as he heard the tread of two pairs of heavy feet echo down the hall. Crowley was out of the room in a second, invisible again and vaulting over the fence behind the backyard, leaving a perplexed Aziraphale to stare bemusedly after him.

: : :

"Er—hello." The angel stated awkwardly, turning to take in the officials with their broad shoulders and tall frames. "Jesse, dear, who are these men?" The boy shuffled his feet, blinking up at him. One of the men moved, slightly, behind him. Aziraphale's eyes rose to watch him.

"Just some FBI guys. Said they had some questions." Aziraphale smiled slightly, nodding a bit, not taking his eyes off the two men, shifting to eye them both, in turn.

"I see." He smiled at Jesse, then, disarmingly. "Well, don't worry, I'll go have a chat with them. Why don't you get back to your homework?" Jesse nodded, hopping back up onto his kitchen chair.

"OK." Aziraphale pressed the boy's shoulder reassuringly with his palm as he walked past him, placing himself between Jesse and the two men, still smiling.

"Gentlemen, if you'll head back down the hall, I'll direct you to the living room. Would you care for some tea?" The taller of the two flashed him a smile, and Aziraphale felt the other man watching him, but ignored it.

"No, but thanks. We just have a few questions." Aziraphale nodded, and followed the two men down the hall. They entered the living room, and Aziraphale took a seat on a chair while the men sat on the couch across from him. He folded his hands in his lap and gazed silently at them, waiting. The shorter one seemed to shift in discomfort, but the taller one barged ahead, face animated and amiable. "So, uh, you're Jesse's—?"

"Uncle." The angel stated firmly. "From England." The taller man tilted his head, brown eyes wide and attentive.

"England, huh? Quite a distance. How long've you been here? Why'd you come?" Aziraphale allowed himself a small smile, but his back was a bit rigid, his voice stiff.

"For a few years. Jesse's parents are quite busy, and a child needs supervision." The taller man laughed, agreeing, and Aziraphale felt his eyes narrow. "I'm sorry, what did you say your names were, again? Might I see your badges?" The shorter man grinned at him, reaching into his suit pocket as his partner did the same.

"Oh, sorry. We already flashed them for the kid. Here you go." Aziraphale leaned forward as they presented their badges, and squinted. After a moment, he relaxed, resettling into his chair.

"I see. Agents Page and Plant, is it?" The taller one—Agent Plant—beamed again, charmingly.

"That's us. And you are—?" Aziraphale quietly returned the smile.

"Azar Afel. Pleased to make your acquaintance." The shorter man—Agent Page—blinked at him.

"Huh. That's an odd name, isn't it? You're English, but—" The angel smiled him into silence.

"My father had a great affection for Hebrew names. But I trust you are not here to learn about my family history?" Agent Page looked taken aback, almost a little angry, but the taller Agent Plant quickly interceded.

"You're right, sorry, we'll get to the point. Have you noticed any strange phenomena, recently?" Aziraphale's brows furrowed, and he glanced from Agent Plant to Agent Page, then back again.

"'Strange'? What do you mean?" The shorter Agent Page cut in, green eyes meeting his seriously.

"Have you felt any sudden warmth or presence in the room with you, or strange scents from out of nowhere? Maybe some colorful flashes of light in the corner of your vision, or weird dreams?" Aziraphale began to frown, his forehead wrinkling, and the taller Agent Plant cut in.

"Or feathers in strange places?" Aziraphale looked up in alarm, his face tense in surprise.

"_Feathers? _W-Where ever would they come from?" His eyes nervously slipped between the two agents, his fingers starting to wring each other. "You're talking as though—"

"Angels." Agent Page stated with compelling conviction, those green eyes narrowing. "We're asking if you've seen or sensed any angels around here, lately." Aziraphale stared at them, shocked and starting to feel very cornered, for some reason. He still managed a smile, suddenly feeling rather exposed.

"No—no, of course not. Angels—what would they be doing _here_, of all places?" Agent Page smiled at him—a sort of bad-boy, rakish smile.

"See, that's the thing. We've heard about miracles around here. Strange happenings—you must've seen the news. People here are acting nicer than usual. Doing more good deeds. That doesn't strike you as suspicious?" Aziraphale forced a humoring laugh, shaking his head. (Inside, he felt a little flustered and guilty—he'd only been doing his job! Inspiring people to do good works—he never thought he'd be _traced _by them!)

"You lads certainly have quite the imagination. Our town's just like any other, people acting kindly as well as badly, and—" (Crowley'd been doing work, too, of course. Why weren't _his_ deeds arousing suspicion?) Agent Plant bowed his head as he interrupted, a little apologetically, brown eyes soft and understanding.

"This is America, Mr. Afel. I'm sorry to say it's more common to find people acting _badly_ instead of kindly." He glanced at his partner, and Agent Page nodded.

"Yeah." Agent Page's green eyes peered at him. "You feeling all right? You seem a little pale." Aziraphale stiffened again, then plastered on another smile.

"I'm just fine, thank you for asking. But are there many more questions? I really should be getting back to Jesse, a lad needs his dinner, and you caught me just in the middle of—" Agent Page's eyes narrowed, and Aziraphale found himself swallowing, mind racing as to how to get out of this. These men knew much about angels. _Too _much. He'd heard of their kind, of course, but he'd been in England so long and humans passed away so quickly—but how could he have forgotten about _hunters, _of all things, and (more importantly) how could he keep his true identity concealed? Aziraphale's fingers twined together as he eyed their jackets, nervously (wondering what angel-weapons they might contain), and the taller Agent Plant smiled disarmingly at him.

"Just a few more, if you don't mind." Aziraphale nodded, still slightly shaken from his realization, and managed a weak smile.

"Yes, well… You were saying? Honestly, now—you can't mean _angels_, of all things—"

"We do." Agent Plant stated firmly, brown eyes bright and earnest, again. "We're not lying to you. There's an angel around here, no doubt about it. Have you noticed anyone acting strange, lately? Any sudden changes in behavior?" Aziraphale shook his head, and Agent Page frowned at him.

"Mr. Afel, please. We're just trying to help." Aziraphale bit his lip, smiling beseechingly at them.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Why are you trying to find an angel? Aren't they—" Agent Plant's face hardened, and he broke in, voice caustic.

"They're not like what you read about in the Bible." Startled at the tone, Aziraphale looked at him. Those brown eyes were hard and passionate, almost angry.

"What?"

"Angels. They're not kind and merciful and forgiving. They're—"

"Dicks." Agent Page cut in, and Aziraphale stared at him. Green eyes were set, completely unyielding. "They're mindless soldiers who possess people, mess with minds, and don't care _who_ gets caught in the crossfire if they're in a fight—especially one with demons." Aziraphale felt faint.

"D-Demons?" He managed, feebly. Agent Plant nodded at him, lips pursed as though he didn't like revealing this—like he was shattering Aziraphale's illusion of reality, or something.

"I'm afraid so. Demons, angels, all those monsters in the movies—they're real." Agent Plant smiled, just a bit. "But don't worry, we take care of them." He gestured to his partner and himself. "We hunt them, make sure they don't hurt people." Aziraphale felt uneasy again, but smiled a bit to cover it.

"Such honorable work." Agent Page looked a tad embarrassed, but Agent Plant just gave him a wide, open smile.

"It's the family business, Mr. Afel. Now, are you _sure_ you can't tell us anything useful?" Aziraphale bit his lip, glancing between the two men, and sighed. He looked down at his hands, smiling ruefully.

"I'm afraid anything I would tell you wouldn't help that much." Agent Plant's big hand moved forward, covering his, and when Aziraphale looked up those brown eyes were practically _begging_ him.

"Anything you know might help. Even the smallest detail could be important. _Please._" Aziraphale glanced off to the side, and exhaled slowly.

"You boys might not like what you hear." The angel murmured to himself, and Agent Plant started in.

"Mr. Afel, plea—"

"_Allar bia_." [12] Aziraphale stated, very softly, looking sadly at them. Agent Plant's mouth continued moving, but no sound came out. They both rose, quickly, obviously afraid and about to lash out. No noise escaped their throats. The angel stood, gazing at them seriously. "I know you are hunters, but it has been a long time since my last encounter." Aziraphale shook his head and spoke quietly, again, but with much power.

"_Page._" [13] They stopped in mid-reach for (presumably) the angel-weapons concealed by their jackets, and Aziraphale gave them another apologetic smile. "I'm sorry for this, but I mean neither Jesse nor this town any harm." He sighed, shaking his head and walking forward, raising his hands. "It would be best for you both to forget me and leave here at once." Aziraphale paused, gazing respectively into both green and brown eyes. He smiled kindly.

"All angels are not soldiers, my dears. And not all of us are mindless." The angel lifted an index and middle finger, pressed together, to each of the men's foreheads and uttered a final incantation. "_Bams._" [14]. With the contact, they collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Crowley poofed into existence on the other side of the couch, and Aziraphale—miffed at his earlier disappearance—gave him a reproachful™ look. The demon didn't notice, just whistled, eyes glued to the two bodies on the floor.

"Wow. Extreme measures, Zira? That's not like you." The angel shook his head, frowning when Crowley squatted down to poke irreverently at Agent Page's forehead.

"I had no choice. The last hunters I recall meeting weren't exactly gentlemen, you know." Crowley snorted as he straightened, hands sliding into the pockets of his black slacks.

"Geez, angel. I don't believe it. You nailed the _Winchesters_." Aziraphale gave him an odd look and Crowley turned incredulous. "Haven't you _heard _of them?" The angel just continued to stare, brow furrowed, and Crowley huffed in disbelief. Beginners had all the luck. "They're on Hell's Most Wanted list. Real pains in the arse of the Nobility." The demon waved a hand, tone growing bored as he recited. "Getting in the way of the Onward March of Evil and all that, blahblahblah." He paused, surveying them, voice dropping as he mused aloud, toeing at Agent Plant's suit jacket with his must-be-black-snakeskin boots. "Should've recognized them right off, I guess. The tells are all there, but it's hard to remember a hunter you haven't met, personally." Aziraphale found his gaze wandering back over the two unconscious men, tone sympathetic as he sighed.

"The poor dears. They're so young…" He trailed off, gazing at Crowley. The demon peered back at him.

"What?"

"Well, we still have to get them back to their car, old boy. And preferably somewhere far away from here, for when they wake up." Crowley raised an eyebrow, and lifted his hand to miracle them away. Aziraphale glared at him before he could, and the demon scowled.

"_What? _They're huge! I'm not going to _drag_ these bloody Yanks _all the way down the block_ just because _you_ don't like teleporting people!" Aziraphale sniffed, arms crossing over his front as he turned away, nose high in the air.

"_I_ neutralized them! Might I remind you that you _ran away_?" Crowley snarled, waving a hand about, frustrated.

"Hey, I was _watching. _Besides—they were creature- and demon-hunters long before they started in on angels. Self-preservation is a _must_ around guys like these, Zira!" Aziraphale just huffed.

"Oh, please." He turned his head, narrowing a glare on the demon. "We've been in this together since the Nopacalypse. I can't believe you would just—What?" Crowley had gone silent, his expression strange.

"…Nopacalypse? _No_pacalypse? _That's _what you've been calling it?" On the very verge of laughter, his mouth seemed to be straining not to rise into a grin. (It looked very odd, indeed.) Aziraphale's expression went stony at the mockery, his voice stiff and rising another offended notch. (He'd been saying it in his head so long, it'd just slipped out—he hadn't said it around Crowley, really, in all these years? Not that they talked about it all that much, but still…)

"And just _what_ is the matter with it? It's a perfectly suitable name, you know _precisely_ what I'm referring to, and—" Crowley bowed his head, shaking it in disbelief.

"You're impossible, angel." He drew a quick, momentarily-glowing sigil in front of him, and the Winchesters disappeared as it did. He smirked at the little offended squawk from his friend, and glanced up at him. "They're back in their car, parked in front of their hotel, no worries." Crowley's face took on a thoughtful look, as he scribbled another (slightly more complicated) squiggle in the air. Behind black lenses, yellow snake eyes narrowed towards the ceiling, in concentration. "And _now_—on top of you making them not-remember Jesse's house, him, us, or anything that occurred in it—they won't remember why they came here in the first place, will leave first thing when they wake up, and this little incident will be purged from their minds by the end of the day tomorrow." The demon beamed mockingly at Aziraphale at the end of the long, rambling sentence, angling his eyebrows meaningfully. "Better, oh Mighty Principality?" The angel huffed again.

"Oh, hush." Aziraphale seemed placated, though, by the way he then made to herd Crowley before him as he headed back towards the kitchen. "Come now, I've got to finish dinner. You can help." Crowley laughed uneasily as they entered the kitchen, glancing back at the angel, beseechingly.

"W-Well I'd _love_ to—you know me, angel, always eager to help—but I really should be—" Aziraphale firmly pushed him before the cutting board on the counter, where half a carrot lay in neat circular slices.

"Start there. I daresay you'll enjoy the knife a bit too much." The angel cast him a wry look, and Crowley offered up a nervous smile. He didn't cook much.

"Er. Right." The demon glanced down, and picked it up.

Not a minute later, blood fountained spectacularly in the air, followed by a distressed hiss. Aziraphale spoke serenely from his place in front of the stove, stirring with eyes calmly focused on the boiling broth.

"Do_ please _tone down your theatrics and try not to stain anything, dearest."

Jesse didn't even look up.

[12] Enochian, "Bind up their voices."

[13] Enochian, "Be still."

[14] Enochian, "Let them forget."

~END CHAPTER FOUR~


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 5/24

Word Count: 11,445

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: The Winchesters, Bobby, Castiel, Aniel, Jimmy Novak, Amelia Novak, Jessica Moore, Inias, Hester, King of the Crossroads

Warning(s): Language, some violence, vulgar humor, men kissing, two minor characters from Season 7 of SPN.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, July 20, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_2 Corinthians 7:20 _

_For I fear that perhaps when I come I may find you not as I wish, and that you may find me not as you wish—that perhaps there may be quarreling, jealousy, anger, hostility, slander, gossip, conceit and disorder._

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,005, June-_

"No." Sam pouted at the response, continuing to follow his brother like an overgrown puppy. One strap of a ratty backpack stuffed with clothes was slung over his shoulder.

"But—!" Dean dropped his duffel through the window and onto the backseat of the Impala, then pointed a finger in his not-so-little brother's face. (Damn, that was annoying. In a few years he'd be literally talking _up _to Sam, and it'd make his big brotherly speeches that much less intimidating.)

"_No, _Sam. You are _not _coming with me. We've been over this." Sam's eyebrows folded in on themselves, his mouth stubbornly screwing up—the classic bitch face—as he folded his arms. Since he was still a teenager, Dean prayed the drama would wear off in a couple years. Still, he wasn't holding out much hope.

"_Dean._ I'm not fourteen anymore." Dean huffed, looking off, annoyed with being reminded that his baby brother was growing up, year by year.

"Yeah, so what?" Sam puffed out his cheeks in frustration, eyes closing briefly as he exhaled slowly.

"Don't you _remember_?" Dean peered at him out of the corner of his eye, trying not to let on that he didn't have a clue. Sam could tell, and waved a hand around, exasperated. "You don't! Ugh! You _promised_ I could start hunting with you when I was fifteen!" Dean frowned.

"When did I promise that?" It didn't_ sound_ like something he would say. Sam glared at him.

"I was nine. And you wouldn't let me go—I was _begging_, Dean!" Dean's eyebrows cinched together.

"Wait—you don't mean—"

"_Yeah, _that vampire nest in Wisconsin!" Dean glared at him, pointing in Sam's face.

"I _only_ told you that so you would stop complaining and let us go! Vampire nests are _dangerous_!"

"Yeah, but _you _and _Bobby_ were going!"

"Bobby and I are professionals! I've been doing this my whole life, and—"

"And you think that's _it_? Bobby's not going to be around forever, and what are you gonna—"

"I'm _fine_ on my own, Sam! I'm trained, and you have no reason to risk your life in this business if you have a chance to—"

"Bobby's been training me on the side, you know! I'm not a _novice! _And another thing—" Sam cut Dean off before he could interrupt. "You're _always _pushing me into school, Dean! What about family? What about if maybe I care about you, too, and I don't want to see you out there on your own?" Dean bit back his initial response, visibly restraining himself and instead just glared down at Sam, jaw set.

"I _said _no." Sam's gaped at the stubborn reply, his hands propping on his hips, forehead wrinkling.

"Dean!" Dean pursed his lips in frustration, looking off again before shaking his head and turning to the car, opening the Impala's driver's-side door.

"_No_, Sam. You're not coming, you don't even know—" A big, gawky hand shut the door before he could slip in, fingers curled over the line of the fully-open window.

"Dean—" Incensed, Dean whirled around, practically snarling in Sam's face.

"You _don't_ know what it's like to only be good at killing things, Sam! You're so _great_ at so much more, and if you got killed in a hunt I'd never forgive myself because you don't _deserve_ that kind of death!" Sam's big brown eyes were wide, staring at Dean in sudden surprise.

"This is about Dad, isn't it." Dean felt an uncomfortable tingle in the back of his neck, and turned from him, again, frowning to himself.

"Dad has nothing to do with this." Sam sighed, putting a comforting hand to Dean's shoulder, but his brother didn't turn back to face him.

"Dean. It's not your fault, you couldn't have done anything. You were just a kid—" Dean threw off Sam's hand and scowled, opening the Impala's door and climbing in.

"I _know_ that!" Sam leaned in on the car door, his weight shutting it as his fingers pressed over the curve of the open window. His voice was stubborn, though, and firm.

"Dean. Bobby's taught me a lot, but I _know _I haven't had enough experience in real hunts. That's why I want to go. Better to be prepared, right? And who better than you." Dean sighed, dropping his head back against the seat and closing his eyes.

"Sam. You should be getting a job for the summer, not coming with me on hunts. Colleges are going to look at your work experience, it's a tough world, and to get ahead—"

"Let me worry about that." Sam insisted, trying a smile, but it sort of twitched in a hint of uncertainty. (Not that Dean could see it, anyway.) "C'mon, Dean. You know no one ever checks up on those. Besides, Bobby could say I was working at the garage for the summers, right?" Dean frowned, peering out of the corner of one eye at him, squinting.

"You don't want this life, Sam. You don't want to start lying, and go around stealing credit cards and hustling pool for money. You don't want to stay in cheap motels when you have a chance at something more… normal." Dean's throat worked as he swallowed, looking away. Sam's face softened.

"Dean. Taking me on a few hunts in the summer isn't going to ruin my future." Dean tensed. Sam paused, and took a breath before continuing. "Besides, I _never_ see you. You're either out on a hunt or obsessing over some car at the shop—you're working so hard, and I'm just studying and—" Dean was about to extol upon the virtues of education, but Sam pushed on. "—life's not fair, I know. If it were, Mom and Dad would still be here and—"

"This isn't about them." Dean's voice was tight, face turned away and Sam carefully backed off.

"OK, you're right. Point is, you're my _only _family left, Dean. Bobby and Jody and Missouri are great and all, and I know they've helped us a lot, but you're my _brother. _I barely know you, and I—" Sam swallowed, and Dean felt uncomfortable again. "I never knew Dad. Bobby tells me about him, sometimes, but _you_ were with him every day for _ten years_, and I just thought that maybe—"

"Get in the car." Sam jerked, eyes going wide.

"W-What?" Dean started the ignition, not looking at him.

"You want me to change my mind?" Sam gasped, scrambling for the other side of the car.

"N-No!" Dean smirked to himself for a millisecond. Same dorky younger brother. The Impala's passenger-side door creaked loudly as it was open and shut, and a breathless Sam tumbled into the seat, clutching his backpack in his lap and fumbling for the seatbelt. Dean didn't comment, just pressed the clutch once he was buckled, moved the stick into gear and backed out of the driveway. Sam remained quiet as Dean shoved a tape into the deck, but when heavy metal blasted out of the speakers Sam groaned, looking at Dean.

"C'mon, Dean—" Dean raised his right hand from the wheel, the index finger up, expression utterly serious and eyes on the road.

"House rule, Sammy. Driver picks the music—" He glanced at Sam for a second, smirking slightly. "—shotgun shuts his cakehole." Sam huffed, eyebrows descending in annoyance as the teenager pouted into his seat. His arms crossed over his chest as he hunched his right shoulder up against the passenger-side window, glaring out of it.

"Not fair."

"Hey, _you_ wanted to come, so accept the terms of your enslavement." Sam snorted, at that, grumbling unhappily into his chest.

"Jerk." Dean felt an unexpected smile curl up the left corner of his mouth.

"Bitch." He only ever drove the Impala when he was by himself, because on hunts with Bobby they always took the van. It felt weird having Sam in the passenger seat, but oddly right—like something important had just slotted into place.

(And _damn_, did Dean feel like a giant girl for thinking that.)

_-Anno Domini 2,005 ad 2,007-_

Against Dean's better judgment, Sam proceeded to tag along for every summer after that. As much as Dean might not like to admit it, Sam was pretty good at what he did. His little brother also introduced something Dean hadn't been trained to utilize—a computer. Sure, Dean was a pro at the Dewey Decimal system and looking stuff up on those machines which archived old newspapers, but Sam was unbeatable when it came to the Internet. The kid would get on his laptop and bing-bang-_boom_, they'd have five-thousand search engine hits five seconds later. So Dean couldn't deny that Sam was useful, or that it was nice being able to share the family business with his brother. Not that Dean wanted this for Sam forever, but hey, he knew Sam'd be applying for college soon and he'd take all the quality time he could get (even if it meant teaching Sam—more by example than anything direct—how to shoot a gun and hustle pool and a bunch of other things no decent, upstanding citizen should know how to do).

When it came to vampires, Sam (literally) saved his neck. If it was shapeshifters (and boy, were they common these days), Sam went for the silver knives. Salt and iron came out for the malevolent spirits, and silver bullets ended werewolves. Pagan gods were a bit trickier, and when they got in a bit over their head they contacted Ellen at the Roadhouse. Ash was always willing to help (in return for beer), and when they hit a dry spell in the summer, they'd ask him to hunt down some demons or angels making trouble.

Demons were easy to locate, as the towns they tended to congregate in usually had a slew of missing persons and lots of violent crime. Angels were a bit trickier, as the sons of bitches usually only possessed one person and kept a low profile except for inspiring doings of Good in the townsfolk. Sure, on the surface it might seem harmless (and even beneficial), but Dean had seen enough of angels in his life to know they weren't anything but another kind of monster. Very few weapons would work on them, but on a fluke, one time, he'd discovered that demon blood was a deterrent for those of angelic persuasion. It wasn't much to go on, but Dean had a few bullets coated in the stuff in case they ever needed them.

There was also an old incantation Dean'd discovered when he'd stumbled upon a demon and angel having it out. The demon was obviously high-class (having white eyes instead of just black), and it'd uttered an incantation that'd sent its angelic adversary straight out of its meatsuit and back to Heaven. Dean had had the presence of mind to record the incantation (as well as shield his eyes when the angel's Grace manifested), and had brought it home to Bobby. They both memorized it, and gave it to whomever they saved from angels, for protection. Another tip they'd gotten from bursting in on another gathering of demons was hex bags. Dean had been using hex bags for demons in the hotel rooms he'd stayed in with his dad as far back as he could remember, so applying them to angels seemed reasonable enough. Holy water was, of course, a no-go (if anything, it _strengthened_ angels), but Enochian seemed to have an effect.

Funnily enough, it had been Sam who found the Enochian dictionary. Bobby had mentioned it off-handedly, one day, and Sam had gone and Googled it, only to find that there was an actual human-produced _source_ on the subject. It was a downloadable PDF file, written by some old literary-type, and provided a basic understanding of Enochian. Sam—language geek that he was—dove right into it, coming up with a few phrases, and insisting that Dean try them against an angel, some time.

And on a hunt—with no alternative, and pinned by the throat to a wall with an angel looming over him—Dean had gasped out _Niisa_ [1]. The angel had been tossed back as if by the hand of God himself, and had stared at him in awe. A little more confident, Dean straightened, and clearly shouted, _Pizin noco iad_. Across the room, the angel gasped, collapsing to the floor and curling into itself, writhing in pain with blood dripping from the unfortunate meatsuit's lips. Dean took advantage of the angel's agony and began the lengthy incantation to free the poor kid possessed by the holy dick.

Afterward, the human girl it'd been possessing was unconscious, but Dean looked in her pockets and found her ID. (Angels never did seem to remember the particulars of their meatsuits, and so never got rid of such evidence.) He carted her off to the hospital in his Impala, and she woke on the way there, in the backseat. Dean explained as much as he could, gave her some advice and she stumbled out of the car, not looking back. He couldn't say he blamed her, shifted into drive and sped off before anyone could come out and try to question him. That was before he'd started working with Sam in the summers. Angels were just another creature that needed squashing (which was, to be honest, practically impossible, but sending them back to Heaven was the best they could do, right now).

[1] Enochian, "Come away."

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2007, Spring-_

After suitably cleaning his feathers of as much sand as possible, Castiel took a moment to prepare for his Call. He stood waist-deep in the inland lake, gazing upward. He felt the thrum of life around him, the pulse of the blood in his vessel's veins, the sounds from plants and animals alike. Life. All part of his Father's work, all beautiful, all needed. He spread his wings, then, shaking them out and placing his palms against the surface of the water, just lightly. Grace tingled out of his fingertips, instantly blessing the water around him and providing a ballast for his energy.

Castiel sent out a pulse of contact, a fraction of a prayer, traveling through the molecules in the air. It was a simple Call, addressed specifically to the members of his garrison, but not hidden from the Host at large. Castiel didn't wish to trouble his higher superior—Zachariah—with his message, and so did not send a very loud Call, but it still should be enough for his garrison brothers (who were more attuned and familiar with his Grace signature) to hear.

He was not impatient. Castiel had been alive for over four thousand years, serving his Lord. Once, when the Son was on Earth, he had taken a vessel and walked among Man. Castiel had not especially cared for the tone of the species, then—but, after all, he did not need to. He revered Man, but had no need to respect him. Perhaps it was the fault of the circumstances, as no angel had been particularly fond of Man after the Son had been crucified. The fact that it had been part of Father's Plan, all along, did not affect this sentiment.

But no, after living so long, Castiel was not impatient. He knew his brothers were occupied, busy doing his Father's Work, and expected it to be quite a few hours before he received a response.

But he could wait.

_-Anno Domini 2007, Summer-_

After several weeks of unsuccessful attempts to reach other angels, Castiel was unsettled. Granted, he had been out of contact with his brothers for almost twenty years, but there should be no reason he couldn't contact them. It was an equally unwelcome surprise when he discovered he couldn't even _sense _them. Perhaps it had to do with the human body he inhabited? Certainly, he had never tried to contact his brethren when he first dropped into it, but there had been no need. (He'd been given his Orders in Heaven, and had received none—barring the date for the long-foretold apocalypse in 2011—since coming to Earth.)

No matter the obstacles, Castiel simply _must_ overcome them and speak with a superior. It was possible he had missed some crucial direction, and in that case, perhaps it was best to try contacting his major. There were only four years until the apocalypse, after all, and undoubtedly she—as one of the Original Seven Archangels, Aniel the Just—must be aware of the state of affairs in Heaven. Castiel was concerned he might be missing some vital Orders, and wished to make himself useful as soon as possible. Given that his fellow captain, Balthazar, was also on Earth in a human body (sadly, only Father in His Infinite Wisdom knew where), Castiel had hoped they could find one another and seek out their next Orders for the coming apocalypse together. But, with his telepathy sorely out of practice, that wasn't quite an option.

So, one night, Castiel found a remote forest, stood in the center of a small clearing, and began to pray. It took almost a month to receive an answer, and even then Aniel's usually calm voice was harried, her speech more glib than he recalled.

_Castiel? …Wait there._

Never having a thought to disobey, Castiel waited. Thankfully, by this point—with his Grace fully active—his body required no sustenance or sleep, and the months passed uneventfully.

_-Anno Domini 2008, April-_

One morning, Aniel appeared suddenly in front of him. (It was an easy-enough thing to manage, as Castiel had not moved since receiving her response some months ago.) He knelt, wings manifesting and folding submissively into his back. Her fingers touched his head and he peered up, perplexed at the physical contact, eyes blinking up at her. Her vessel was slim and pale, with a shock of long, fine, very red hair falling over one shoulder. She was currently looking away from him, posture tense, and seemed to be checking the surroundings. Castiel daren't speak up to assure her he had already checked them. (It would have been unspeakably prideful to assume he could sense more than an Archangel and besides, she was already finished.) She stared quietly at him—assessing—and he met her gaze, respectfully. A smile crossed her face and she ruffled his hair gently as she withdrew her hand.

"Castiel. It is good to see you." He bowed his head again, seeing no logical reason to return her smile.

"Aniel. I am sorry to trouble you." She frowned at him, and he went on. "I have received no Orders from Heaven, and cannot contact my brothers. I have prayed to them, but they do not respond." A slender hand fell over his mouth, shushing him, and Castiel fell immediately silent. Aniel's frown had deepened, lines appearing in her young vessel's face.

"Castiel. You haven't received Orders?" He nodded silently, and she took her hand away to grant him permission to speak.

"Not since before my assignment to Earth." She stared at him in astonishment.

"What?" Castiel felt his forehead wrinkle.

"Have I missed an important Summons? I shall immediately return to Heaven and—" A raised hand from his superior silenced him gently, but immediately.

"Wait—Wait, Castiel." Aniel peered at him, eyes squinted and intense. "You haven't been contacted by Heaven in nearly twenty Earth years? You never thought to Call home?" Castiel hesitated, but squared his shoulders and stood up straight and true. He had nothing to hide.

"I was employing a technique which allowed me to remain prepared for battle, but which also unfortunately rendered me unable to communicate for several years." Aniel frowned at him, again.

"What technique was this?" He had hesitated before, but—given such a direct question—now he did not. He spoke clearly and simply.

"I suspected the vessel's mother of siphoning off my Grace. At six years of age, I retreated into a cocoon of Grace and hibernated until the vessel had matured." Aniel stared at him for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was severe, eyes narrow.

"Castiel. Am I to understand you—despite being connected to Heaven and therefore able to access all the power of the Host—kept your vessel in a _comatose state_ only to save Grace?" His eyes widened. It was the only sign of panic as he met that hardened stare. His voice was deceptively calm as he offered only what he could—the truth.

"No, Aniel. I would never dare to blaspheme when entrusted with a human body. To refrain from harming it with a lack of consciousness, I combined desirable human traits and projected them as an outward persona." She continued to watch him, clearly giving Castiel permission to continue. "This persona was a socially-accepted incarnation of humanity. It could live as a normal human without requiring my interference, enabling me to remain steadfast in my Purpose. I was not tainted by the humanity around me. Is that not better than becoming like the Nephilim? I recognized the danger of assimilating into human culture—the mistakes our past brothers made—and so implemented a more efficient method to complete my mission." He stopped again, upon noticing Aniel's lack of reaction. He didn't sense more permission to continue, though, and remained silent as she reached a hand out to grasp his shoulder. Her voice was carefully controlled.

"Castiel. Might I check your Grace?" He nodded, understanding. As her subordinate, he neither could nor would refuse an Order from her, but it was expected for superiors to announce their intentions.

"There are no barriers between brothers." Aniel flashed him a smile and placed her other hand on his other shoulder. She leaned forward—a good thing Castiel's vessel was so short—and pressed her forehead to his.

Wings exploded out from both their backs, the few white feathers shaking free from the unfurling and fluttering down around them. An altogether ethereal whirlwind swirled these feathers up, and their details disappeared, into light—pure Grace, which would blind any human. These light-feathers grew, weaving together into a glowing sphere around the two angels. The seamless dome of Grace separated them entirely from the forest clearing they stood in. This physical barrier erected, Castiel felt Aniel's Grace reach for his own. He provided no resistance, merely gave way to the portion of her wavelength of molecules flowing into and around his own. [2] Castiel felt a vague warmth in the core of his Grace from the close contact with his brother as Aniel's soothingly Just mind spread through his own. He bore the intimate contact placidly. It did not hurt, and did not make him uncomfortable. Castiel lived to serve Heaven (in addition to aiding and revering Humanity), and if Aniel needed to inspect his Grace before he could receive his next Orders (presumably ones that would _also_ include aiding and revering Humanity), that was simply all there was to be done.

She withdrew after an immeasurable moment—judging by the shadows, time had undoubtedly passed around them, but this was unimportant. Silently, they called their wings back in, and the sphere of light shattered around them—shards evaporating into the air before they even hit the ground. Aniel's vessel's hands were on his cheeks, and her eyes were solemn and doe-like as they gazed into his. Castiel felt his brow knit against hers, staring at her in confusion. He felt he was missing something—something elusive and formless (possibly an 'emotion', even though he still wasn't completely certain as to what they were).

"Oh, Castiel. What did you do?" Her voice was hushed, and he felt his mouth pull down, slightly.

"I do not understand. I have explained that I discovered an adequate solution concerning the substantial risk of integrating into human society." He fell obediently silent as Aniel gently placed her fingers on his mouth—shushing him, again. She had regained her composure, but remained silent for some time, watching him. Her vessel's face was unreadable. Whatever had been there before was gone, but when Aniel spoke, at last, her voice was unnaturally soft.

"Castiel. I need you to listen very carefully, do you understand? I am going to give you your Orders." Castiel straightened, at that—inadvertently pulling back from the press of Aniel's forehead—showing his readiness for duty in the unflinching gaze he directed on her.

"Yes, Aniel." She met his eyes with equal gravity, her face lined with familiar Authority.

"Do not try to contact Heaven, nor seek out your brothers, nor seek out or try to contact _me_. Do you understand?" Castiel felt his mouth tug downward, again. Aniel's gaze turned sharp at his hesitation, and she leaned forward, gripping his lower arm tightly, voice low and urgent. "Castiel. I am your major, and I am Ordering you to stay away from Heaven and its agents both on Earth and in human vessels. I will contact you with your next Orders. _Do you understand?_"

Unable to refuse, Castiel chased away his initial misgivings and nodded. His duty was to obey Heaven, but what was more important was obeying his superior. This was why the hierarchical system Heaven had was so efficient. Aniel would never abuse her power and command him to do something not approved by Heaven. This must be a very important mission if Aniel had been instructed to Order Castiel to remain out of contact with the Host. He finally felt useful, as though he was already fulfilling his duty to serve Heaven—even if it meant waiting. He had a Purpose, now, and the chance to fulfill such an important Purpose given by a superior was an honor, a true badge of trust. To question it did not even enter his mind. His whole Purpose was to Serve. Castiel looked up, meeting Aniel's vessel's eyes seriously.

"I understand. I will await further Orders." Aniel cupped his cheek, and studied him a moment. Then she offered a small smile.

"I will see you in a few years, Castiel."

With the rustle of unseen feathers, she was gone.

[2] To describe this as anything other than clinical would be strictly inappropriate.

_-Anno Domini 2008, July-_

It took a few months before Castiel could adequately explain his new Purpose to Jimmy, but as soon as he did, Jimmy asked what was next. With a thought, Castiel allowed him control of the vocal cords, speaking aloud to each other easily. (It was obvious that, by now, Castiel's Grace had had a chance to adapt to being active in his new vessel, and no longer gave out a blatant beacon to any sensitive beings nearby. It was truly a horrible inconvenience for stealth—to only speak, and have one's Grace attract demons to them, and the angel was quite relieved it had been only a temporary inconvenience.) Castiel answered honestly that he did not know, and Jimmy took the response as the kind of chance that comes but once in a lifetime.

"So if God doesn't need you to do anything, can we go home? Just until your next Orders come?"

_ "I am not sure that is wise, Jimmy. I could be called to Serve at any time."_

"But that lady angel said 'a few years', right? And it's not like you can find any other angels."

"_Jimmy."_

"I just mean—hey, if you're not doing anything, why _can't _we go home?"

"_I would not wish to put your family in danger."_

"But you're awake now, right? So you could protect us."

"_But, it is possible my presence—"_

"But you said your Grace isn't projecting anymore, right? That should be fine, right? You could camp up here in my—"

"_Our."_

"Fine, _our _head, and I could get to be with Amelia and Claire, and you could keep an eye out from in here. Wouldn't that work?"

"_…I suppose."_

"Then this is perfect! I promise I won't block you out, since I know you're real, OK? That OK?"

Castiel felt a small undertone of desperation that was not his, and sent a quiet wave of comfort towards Jimmy. Really, Jimmy wasn't real, and yet—it would be cruel to keep him from his family without reason, wouldn't it? Castiel was waiting for further Orders—ones that may not come until right before the apocalypse in 2011—and there was no sense in Jimmy's family worrying about him when they did not need to be separated. It was obvious Jimmy wished to return, but it was equally obvious that Castiel (with his Grace fully active) held more power of the two of them.

But still, was it not better to be benevolent? Was it not better to grant Jimmy this time with his family, especially as the end of the world was nearing? It would not endanger anything if Castiel were to acquiesce. Perhaps his persona had had more of an effect on him than Castiel had originally intended, but the fact remained that Jimmy was complex in his thought patterns. He was not the simple creature Castiel had created so many years ago. Castiel did not know what to make of it, but the angel did not think his Father would look well upon Jimmy suffering more than strictly necessary. Despite the fact Castiel knew Jimmy was just an invention, deep-down, he was close enough to a human that the angel would prefer to err on the side of caution. This was simply a strategic decision, but something inside him relaxed at the truth that he had not been commanded to keep Jimmy contained. (Then again, Aniel had not _asked_ if Jimmy still existed, because it was an easy assumption that—once Castiel had reclaimed the body—Jimmy would have disappeared. The angel felt uneasy upon not clearing up this assumption, but it honestly hadn't occurred to him at the time, and Aniel had expressly Ordered him not to contact her. He would tell her when they met again, once his Mission had been completed and they could simply speak.)

"_All right, Jimmy. I will fly us to a city near your home and we can walk to your house."_

"Wait, nearby? Why not just fly there?"

"_I do not wish to attract demons with my Grace trail. If I land in another city and then withdraw myself, they will not be able to follow us to your family_." There was silence. Then—

"Thank you, Castiel." The phrase stirred up an early 'training' memory of Jimmy's mother, and the angel considered it a moment, before conceding.

_ "You are… welcome."_ Castiel supplied stiffly, slightly awkward, and Jimmy gave a grateful laugh.

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2008, July-_

_Cripes! I should've asked Castiel to wait until it __**wasn't**__ the middle of summer. _

Jimmy wiped his forehead. The unbuttoned, floppy collar of the sweat-soaked, threadbare shirt he'd been wearing when they'd left (shoulder-rips where the angel's wings had burst out, and all) over a year ago flapped against his collarbone. His long sleeves were already rolled up, his jeans' cuffs folded up to his knees, and he was _dying._ Luckily he only had about a half-hour left, after walking from Minonk, Illinois, to Pontiac, Illinois, where Amelia was. It was about eight hours by foot (Castiel had eventually listened to his pleadings to land closer) but an unforeseen after-effect of Castiel withdrawing his Grace from the surface completely meant that Jimmy's stomach was burning holes in itself for being so empty. And he was so _tired_—he knew angels didn't need to sleep, but was it _really _necessary for his body to loudly proclaim that it wanted to collapse and just sleep into the next century?

_Ugh, I can't believe I've lasted __**this**__ long._

Jimmy shook his head, painting an image behind his eyelids of Amelia and Claire. It'd only been a little over a year since he left, so Claire must be eight. She would still remember him, right? He hoped Amelia had been able to manage without him. Had anything happened with Mom and Dad? Jimmy wouldn't dare to ask—Amelia would be _furious_ with him, either way. Jimmy knew it hadn't been his decision to leave, but he couldn't tell her the truth. She wouldn't understand, and that was a big part of why he hadn't told her about the voice, when he first started hearing Castiel. No, he knew what it would look like.

But he couldn't ask the angel to take control to prove it to Amelia, either—any abnormal use of Castiel's Grace might lead to demons finding them. The angel possessing Claire when she was four years old had been enough, and Jimmy didn't want to find out how much worse a demon might be.

"_Jimmy? You need not worry." _And there he was, again—the angel who started all this. Jimmy sighed to himself and shook his head.

"No, Castiel, you don't understand. I _left. _Disappeared."

"_But you are returning." _Jimmy pursed his lips in frustration, and tried to explain.

"That doesn't matter. When you're human, you don't just… _abandon_ people like that. Humans need other humans around to support them. Amelia depended on me to help out with Claire, and without me around I just don't know what she'd do."

"_But your sister is an adult. She possesses the abilities to think critically, prioritize and problem-solve, while also being mature enough to take others into consideration. How could she not 'do' something?"_ Shaking his head, Jimmy rubbed the back of his neck as he thought for a moment. As he climbed up a few concrete steps, Jimmy tried to break down what he was saying so the angel could understand.

"It's just a figure of speech, Castiel. People… _need_ other people to be all right."

"_But your sister has her daughter, and your parents—" _Jimmy cut him off with grit teeth.

"My parents are _not _a suitable support system." Castiel paused, but sounded confused.

"_But they are around her. Jimmy, you said 'humans need other humans around to support them'. If they are around her, how are they not supporting her?" _Jimmy sighed.

"It's not just being around someone, Castiel." He hesitated, searching for a possible example—snapping his fingers when one came. "It's like—you fought in battles, right?"

"_Yes." _Jimmy nodded, continuing.

"Well, it's like that. Just because other angels might be around you, that doesn't mean every angel is a good fighter, right?" Jimmy felt Castiel ripple with something like offense.

"_In Heaven, every brother is afforded respect for venturing out on the battlefield, no matter—"_

"No, Castiel, what I _mean_ is—you know you could depend on a certain angel to have your back in battle, right? Wasn't there an angel like that?" There was silence, for a long moment.

"_I had a comrade. He was a fellow captain. Balthazar. We would often find ourselves fighting together. No demon could stand against us." _Jimmy nodded.

"And you would rather have Balthazar by your side than another angel, right?" Castiel hesitated.

"_No angel should prefer one over another, as we are all equals, and—" _Jimmy waved a hand, impatient with Castiel's evasiveness.

"OK, OK, sure. But if you _did_ prefer an angel at your side in a fight, it would be Balthazar, right?"

"…_Yes." _

"Then there you go." Jimmy smiled again, even if he was a little exhausted with the lengthy explanation. (Still, it was pretty funny Castiel had such a hard time grasping so simple a concept as this.) "Amelia might have Mom and Dad and Claire _around _her, but they can't support her like I can. She prefers me, like you would prefer Balthazar in a battle. And just because she might _prefer_ me, it doesn't mean she doesn't love them, too." Castiel was silent for another moment, before Jimmy could feel the frustration (of not understanding) drain away.

"_Yes. I understand now. …Thank you." _The 'walk' signal flashed in front of him as the angel awkwardly uttered his gratitude and Jimmy stepped onto the street, his mood making his pace light and free. His smiling face was buoyed with hope.

"Anytime, Castiel."

_-Anno Domini 2008, July, A Few Minutes Later-_

It was late. Not _too_ late—because the days were always long, in summer—but enough that the shadows were starting to lengthen as Jimmy wearily stepped up to the door of the street-level apartment his family shared. His palms were sweaty, so he fisted his hands for a moment, taking a deep breath before wiping them on his pants, and striding purposefully forward. As he raised a hand to knock, the door opened before him and Amelia's wide eyes met his. He noticed she was wearing her waitress uniform, nametag and all, and realized he must've caught her about to leave for her late shift. (Had he really been away so long he'd forgotten _that?_) Jimmy tried a smile that felt awkward as Amelia's hand went to her mouth, her gaze raw but her body stiff.

"Um—hi? I'm back?" His older sister shook her head, overcome, and turned away from the door. Jimmy moved forward, wanting to hug her, explanation hasty. "Look, I know I've been gone a long time, but—"

"Meils? Everything OK?" An unfamiliar male voice sounded from inside the apartment and Jimmy found himself staring as a tall, muscular man emerged into the hallway. Amelia shook her head, again, and the man pulled her into his arms as she shuddered into his shoulder. He looked curiously down the hall towards the door. Suddenly, Jimmy was rather aware of his bedraggled appearance, and smiled hopelessly at him, hands spreading out to their respective sides.

"I'm—I'm her brother. Jimmy?" The man's eyes narrowed for a moment, and Jimmy noticed his arms tighten around his quietly sobbing sister.

"The one who _left?_ _That_ Jimmy?" Jimmy gulped, but a hushed whisper stopped them both.

"No, Ethan, stop." Amelia took a slow breath, and the man's—Ethan's—arms loosened as she straightened, his gaze immediately going to her in concern. Amelia's still-watery-but-dry (she'd sobbed, but not cried, apparently) eyes settled on Jimmy and she visibly fought back the urge to hide, again. Her gaze ran over him as though checking for any injuries, and Amelia offered him a weak smile as she disengaged from Ethan and walked towards Jimmy, watching him as though still not believing he was there. Jimmy felt himself moving forward, again, wanting to embrace his only _real_ mother-figure after so long without her.

"Amelia—" She quickly averted her gaze and ducked around him, towards the door.

"We'll, uh. We'll talk about this later, all right? Tomorrow." Jimmy nodded, biting his lip against the lump in his throat. Amelia glanced back, but it was towards Ethan, not him. "Be nice, OK?" Ethan assented, and Amelia gave him a shaky smile. Then she stepped out the door, shutting it behind her and Jimmy was left alone in the hallway with the burly man. They stared at each other a moment—Jimmy naturally a bit nervous, as Ethan had the physique of the boys who used to beat him up, in high school—before Jimmy found the courage to break the silence.

"So, uh—where is Claire?" Ethan sized him up with a frown, gaze impenetrable.

"In her room, studying." Jimmy blinked at him in confusion. To his knowledge, their apartment had only had the two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom and a living room.

"What? But—" Ethan's voice cut over his, eyes narrowed as though they could release spikes.

"Your parents died about a week after you left." Ethan almost spat the fact, like he blamed Jimmy. "Your mother grew more reckless once you were gone, and they both overdosed. Amelia found them." Jimmy felt taken aback, but he couldn't really sum up too much sadness at the loss. His parents had never really been in his life, anyway, so Jimmy just nodded, feeling guilt well up within him (for not being there) as he stared at the floor.

"I-I see."

"Damn near broke her, you know. Amelia. When I started datin' her she was on the verge of a mental breakdown." Jimmy winced, nodding again and abashedly shoving his hands behind his back.

"I'm sorry." Now venom infused Ethan's tone, cutting angrily at him.

"I don't know _why_ you left, kid, but it really tore her apart. Family is supposed to stick _together_, and I don't know and don't care what possessed you to leave, but—"

"Look, I know it was wrong, all right?" Jimmy managed to pipe up in his defense, gaze hurt and locking on Ethan's. "I didn't _want_ to leave, it wasn't something I planned, but—" He took a slow breath, closing his eyes briefly, wanting to give a reason but not wanting to lie. "I-I was hearing things." Jimmy ventured, staring at the floor again, ashamed. Even if he knew it was only Castiel, it was the truth and it was the only explanation he could give without being condemned for running out on them. He didn't know why he wanted an excuse, why he was trying to _give_ the perfect excuse, but Jimmy didn't—he didn't want Amelia and Claire to hate him. And it wasn't a lie to say he'd left because he was hearing things (because _Castiel_ had been what he was hearing, and _Castiel_ had been what made him leave), so it was the best option he had.

"Hearing things?" Ethan's dubious tone made Jimmy nod, continuing after another steadying breath.

"Yeah. I, uh. I was hearing a voice, telling me things and I—" He gulped, injecting a little white lie into his confession. "I didn't want to hurt Amelia or Claire, like the voice was telling me to, and so I… I went away. I got help." Jimmy tried a glance up, and found Ethan was gazing at him suspiciously. Jimmy swallowed, audibly.

"Where did you go?"

"Um. I-I don't really remember the name of the place." Jimmy tried a nervous smile, and Ethan's face darkened. Ethan didn't say anything about it, but turned.

"C'mon, you're a mess. I think she's still got a few of your clothes hangin' around, but you'll have to sleep on the couch." Jimmy nodded, eyes on the floor as Ethan disappeared briefly down the hall and into what had been his parents' bedroom. He emerged with a few clothes, and pointed him towards the bathroom. Jimmy offered up a smile, trying to get past the wall Ethan was putting up between them.

"Can I see Claire?" Ethan's eyes snapped to him, angry but contained, and the muscular man bit out a response.

"I don't know. That's Meils' decision." Jimmy nodded, and hastily escaped into the sanctuary of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Dropping his clothes on the toilet seat, Jimmy braced his hands on either side of the sink and stared at his reflection. His face was smudged with dirt, his hair greasy and ratty, his clothes torn in places and otherwise absolutely filthy. Jimmy tried a brave smile at himself, expression taught and worried as he braced for what was to come.

"Looks like I've got a lot to make up for, Castiel."

"_Yes. My actions have caused you much hardship." _Jimmy shook his head, pushing off the sink and beginning to peel his clothes off.

"Not your fault, buddy. It's just going to be a long time before they forgive me." Castiel seemed perplexed at the comment, but Jimmy was too tired to try and clear it up for him.

"_Yes." _The angel went silent after that, and Jimmy realized Castiel figured the conversation was over. Jimmy smiled bitterly as he turned on the water, reflecting that angels really _weren't_ as all-loving and intuitively kind as Christian doctrine proclaimed them to be. Oh, they weren't _bad_, per se, but more so obviously lacking in social conventions that they came across as a bit heartless. Jimmy knew this wasn't the case (why else would Castiel agree to let him go home?), but it still was a bit daunting to know he'd get no real help from the angel sharing his head.

Well, Jimmy knew he could do this on his own.

After all, Amelia and Claire were the most important people in his life.

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,008, December-_

As Dean thought, Sam had no trouble getting into a good college. The envelope from Stanford arrived on Christmas Eve Day, and Dean stared down at the table where it sat innocently with the other mail. Sam was taking full advantage of being out of school by sleeping in, and after a few minutes Dean sighed and stood, going about making breakfast.

He knew Sam was going to get accepted—the envelope was huge, and heavy, instead of a small letter-sized rejection one. Truly, Dean was happy. Sam had really wanted to go in for prelaw, and now he'd get his chance, because Stanford was fucking _Stanford._ Still, California was a long way from South Dakota, and Dean still poignantly remembered those first ten years _without_ Sam. Those years had been the ones he had with his dad, and his life with Dad and his life with Sammy never crossed paths. After Dad was gone, Bobby did his best, but Dean never saw him as a father. Bobby wasn't the one who taught him to load guns, or make salt circles, or double-check everything supernatural. Bobby wasn't the one who had instilled in Dean an enviable ability to follow orders and see the world in simple black-and-white.

But Dean knew Sam saw Bobby as a father—how could he not? Dad's visits to Missouri in Kansas had been day-long stints at best, and Dean hadn't gotten much farther than playing with Sam as their dad scoured the town for any new information on their mother's death. Mom had been really great, and there wasn't a day that went by that Dean didn't miss her. Mom had been special. She had read Dean stories, played pretend with him, sung him lullabies, twirled him 'round in the air, taught him to make peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, and had kissed his forehead and whispered _Angels are watching over you _when he went to sleep_._

Dean knew he had no right to resent Missouri and Jody for taking that memory of Mom away from Sammy. He knew it was selfish, and mean, but there was nothing else he could do. Dean had been six years old when his Mom died—Sammy had been six months. For the next four years Dad had trained Dean to be a hunter, to push down all the soft sweet things Mom had introduced Dean to from early on. Dad had trained him to be an avenger, to not dwell on silly-sensitive issues that only girls talked about. Mom had been their girl, and it might've been all right to talk about these things _with_ her, but _none_ of it was all right to talk about now that she was gone. Once she died, she became a special, sacred box right smack dab in the middle of Dean's heart that could never be opened again. That didn't mean he didn't shove everything he couldn't say into that box.

It was like everything kind that Dean did, any soft sweet something he felt the urge to do, all belonged to Mom, because she'd taught him to do that—to love like that. Dean couldn't give those gentle words to anyone else, because if he did, it might mean he was forgetting Mom. He was too afraid to lose her, too afraid to let anyone else in lest they shove Mom out in the process. So he slept around, and charmed and wined and dined his way into a lot of women's beds, but never let them get too close. He could lose himself in the moment with sex—and he was good enough at it that his bedmates never complained—and never worry about these women replacing Mom. Because she was special, and sacred, and the untouchable epitome of Good, in his heart. But Dean never said any of this to anyone, never admitted more than half of it to himself. He was also more than a little annoyed when sometimes Sammy would try to pull them into these stupid chick-flick moments—like it _mattered_ that they said those stupid girlish things aloud when it really _didn't_, because everything was _fine_ if you kept quiet about it, end of story.

He also knew Bobby didn't like some of the things Dad had trained him to be good at, but it didn't matter. If Dean kept doing those things, he wouldn't forget Dad. If he kept following Dad's voice in his head (that shouted orders in the midst of hunts, even now), he wouldn't forget Dad. Dean knew he might be a little weird, but that was all right. He knew he'd never be normal. Bobby had frowned at him a few times, but Dean hadn't backed down and given in to what Bobby wanted for him. It was just part of who he was, so Bobby would have to deal with it. Jody had tried, a few times, to pry out some of Dean's emotions, but he would have none of it. It wasn't their business, it wasn't any crap worth bringing up, just stuff he had to deal with.

And Dean was just fine with it staying that way, which was one of the reasons that when Sam came downstairs, opened his envelope and announced the good news, Dean clapped him on the back with a laugh and jokingly threatened that if his little brother became a lawyer, maybe Dean'd have to hunt _him _down, someday. Sam loudly protested the fact, but he grinned at Dean all the same, and Dean buried that little selfish part of himself (who didn't want the last member of his broken family to go away) deep down as he yelled to Bobby that they should break out his aged hard liquor for a celebration. (Dean was voted down, anyway, as Sam wasn't of age yet—and was a stickler for 'normal person' rules, for some reason—Jody disapproved of underage drinking, and Bobby accused Dean of just wanting at his special stash.)

They ended up calling Missouri to give her the good news, then scarfed down massive amounts of junk food in a college-movie marathon including "National Lampoon's Animal House" (a favorite of Bobby's), "The Waterboy" (to Dean, a classic's a classic), "Rudy" (Jody's pick) and "A Beautiful Mind" (Sam's pick, of course—the nerd). They went to bed tired but happy, ready for Christmas in the morning. It was a memorable day that none of them would forget—especially not Dean, who was acutely aware of the fact that by this time next year, Sam would be back, fresh from his first semester at Stanford.

_-Anno Domini 2,009-_

Surprisingly, Sam still wanted to head out with Dean for some summer hunting and Dean (secretly glad of some bro-on-bro time before the kid left for college, but never about to admit it) allowed it. Those months were spent with little talking, but a lot of action—some stubborn angels, a prankster, and a few run-of-the-mill monsters. At the end of the summer, Bobby (being busy with work and not-so-transparently willing to give Dean the honorable job) lent Dean the van so he could drive Sam out to Stanford. It wasn't packed to the gills—Sam knew how to survive on little, even though he'd never lacked for anything—but Sam still took along a few towels and sheets as well as cleaning supplies, a vacuum and an old TV Bobby had unearthed from somewhere.

Once they'd arrived and Sam'd settled in his dorm, Dean waved Bobby's (actual) credit card and insisted Sam needed new clothes for the semester. Sam rolled his eyes but went along with it (else Dean do the shopping entirely on his own and come back with god-knows-what), and they returned in the evening. Sam's roommate hadn't arrived yet (although yes, they'd gotten in early), so Dean spent the night in the bed across the room from his brother, staring at the ceiling above him and trying not to too visibly freak out about the fact that Sam wouldn't be _around_ all the time, anymore, in Sioux Falls.

It kept him awake for most of the night.

By morning Dean was fine, punched Sam in the shoulder and wished him luck (the complete Sasquatch-sized girl hugged him good-bye, and god _damn_ it if Dean didn't get a little misty-eyed and ended up hugging Sam back a little longer than necessary). A cup 'o Joe from a drive-thru later and Dean was on his way back to South Dakota, completely silent as the van's tape deck blasted his classic 'mullet rock' (or so Sam had dubbed it), the heavy bass even causing the seats to thrum. Dean just stared straight ahead, quiet and contemplative and surrounded by his comfort music.

It was an almost twenty-seven-hour drive to Sioux Falls from Stanford. Dean would wake up at nine in the morning, get breakfast to-go, drive all day (with a break roughly every five hours), and stop at around one in the morning. He'd wake up at ten the next day, and finish the last eleven-and-a-half hours with one break at the halfway mark, and get in to Bobby's house by about eleven o' clock that night.

Dean didn't say much, once he got home—just told Bobby and Jody that Sam was settled at school, and that (tomorrow, of course) he'd like to start in on any cars needing a complete restoration.

He'd make them _shine._

_-Anno Domini 2,010, _

The summer after Sam's first spring semester was surprisingly normal. Dean picked him up at school and drove them both back to Sioux Falls, where Sam nonchalantly asked where they were headed first, for the hunts of the summer. Dean had paused in stuffing a few clothes into a bag, then glanced up only to see Sam smirking at him. He swallowed the lump in his throat, shouldered his duffel (and whacked Sam with it on the way out) and gruffly gave out his first planned location.

The summer went by typically fast with the usual sorts of hunts, and in August they returned home. Dean was surprised to find a girl there to greet them, and was in the process of thoroughly checking her out when Sam elbowed him in the gut, hissing in his ear.

"Dude! That's my _girlfriend!" _Dean blinked, stared at the girl once more for good measure, and then peered back at Sam.

"That's _Jess?_" Then he climbed out of the car, smirking as his brother hastily followed suit, sly eyes wandering back over to the busty blond waving from the porch. "Oh, _man, _Sammy. She's_ way_ too good for _you_." Sam glared at him for that, and Dean laughed. He pulled his duffel full of clothes out of the backseat and tossed it at Sam, smiling charmingly over his brother's offended grunt as he walked up to greet her.

(Jeez, but something in him must've rubbed off on Sam, somewhere. This girl was _dy-no-mite~!)_

Jess revealed, later, that Sam said she and him could drive back to Stanford together, and obviously this caused Dean to freak out a bit. He didn't make a big scene right in front of her, but later that night Sam walked into his room and tried to explain.

"Look, Dean, I didn't tell you because I _knew_ you'd freak out. It makes more sense this way, because both Jess and I have got to get to Stanford, and if we carpool in her car we only end up paying for one twenty-seven-hour drive instead of two. You don't have to waste all that time and gas driving back, right? And we just spent all summer together, Dean. Cut me a little slack, here."

After a speech like that, Dean really did feel pretty selfish—but he'd been looking forward to the long car-ride to Stanford as a nice ending to the summer, a good reassurance that Sam would still want to be around his no-good, uneducated brother despite making a bunch of new friends. Dean knew it wasn't fair, but he didn't like the idea of giving up Sammy to a girlfriend so soon—not that she wasn't a real _peach_, but still.

Not happy with it, but not willing to ruin it for Sam because of his stubborn streak, Dean helped the young couple pack up a trailer Bobby'd dug out of the back, and hitch it to Jess' car. He waved them off with Bobby and Jody at his side, and turned away when they were out of sight. Bobby and Jody went out for dinner, inviting Dean with them, but he refused.

Half an hour later, Dean got a call he never wanted.

"Dean—uh, we've… we've crashed, Jess'… she's unconscious, an'… an' I think—" An explosion rocked the phone and Dean snatched the rejected-version of the online directions from the printer, jumped into the Impala and sped to the scene faster than a hunting Wendigo.

Jess' snazzy little hybrid had exploded. Flames and shrapnel were everywhere, but still Dean barreled forward, mind flashing unwelcome images of his house on fire when he was six.

"Sam! Sammy! Oh God no, Sam, you can't—" He tried to get closer, but another explosion forced him back and Dean fell to his knees, staring at the wreckage. It was like looking into an inferno. Nothing could survive that. Sam was dead. (Mom was dead. Dad was dead, too.)

_Sammy_ was dead.

Dean just stayed there, staring, until the charred, twisted metal was only smoking.

: : :

_-Annis Domini 2,008 ad 2,011-_

Castiel was very perplexed. He did not understand humans. He did not understand why Amelia, after returning home from her place of work, went straight to sleep. Naturally, neither Castiel nor Jimmy required sleep (at least not while Castiel was awake in their shared head) or food, but Jimmy seemed to enjoy both (and their body seemed to crave them more when Jimmy was in control), so the angel allowed him to go through the motions. Castiel quietly watched as Jimmy interacted with his sister, his niece and Ethan, finding himself at a loss for the amount of affection they exchanged. Castiel did not regret returning to the Novaks' place of residence, for Jimmy certainly seemed happier. And yet, Castiel knew they were both merely waiting for that moment when Aniel would come to give Castiel his new Orders. It seemed to make Jimmy a little more desperate to spend as much time with Amelia (and especially Claire, who had started middle school) as possible.

Castiel quietly informed Jimmy of the date of the apocalypse (it was a mercy, nothing more), and on that day Castiel waited anxiously for news from Aniel. But May 21, 2011, passed without anything remarkable happening, and the next day when Jimmy commented on it Castiel was confused.

_"But Jimmy, the date for the apocalypse is not yesterday. It is December 21, 2012."_

Castiel couldn't understand why Jimmy insisted it had actually just passed, and got a bit sharp with him until Jimmy dropped it. Castiel returned to his life undercover and waited, but still received no news from Aniel. He couldn't understand it, but one day all his worries were rendered irrelevant.

_-Anno Domini 2,011, June-_

The Voice of Metatron resounded in Castiel's ears, and Jimmy stumbled from the force of it. He made his way to the bathroom, breathing hard, and Castiel quietly took control. The angel locked the door behind them and knelt on the floor, gazing resolutely upward. Again, Metatron's Voice gave its Order. (The command clearly resonated throughout the entire Host, given the magnitude of it.)

_**All angels of brother Aniel's garrison are to report immediately to Zachariah's office.**_

_**Affirmation of receiving this notice is required in the form of attendance. **_

_**We expect to see you soon.**_

Castiel could not understand, but he could feel Jimmy's sadness. Castiel manifested a paper and pen, and pushed Jimmy forward to control their hands. The fingers shook as Jimmy took the pen, writing a small note and leaving it on the hamper in the bathroom. Once this was done, Castiel carefully wrapped Jimmy up in a cocoon of Grace (to insulate him against the all-encompassing divinity of Heaven, which was not meant for still-living beings of Earth) and headed out the front door. From there the angel walked a ways until he was at the city outskirts, and then took wing.

It had been many years, but Castiel still knew the way between dimensions. He banked a hard left and swept upward, manipulating the air currents until he landed neatly before the Gate. The Gatekeeper asked his name and reason for returning home, and Castiel gave it. Silently, the angel let him through, and Castiel let himself dissolve into a wavelength of celestial intent, traveling through the layers of Heaven until he manifested inside a sterile white waiting room. Two familiar faces jerked up, and Castiel felt a wave of warmth as he extended his hands to them.

"Inias." Inias blinked at him before smiling a bit, nodding in acknowledgement as he stood. Hester, already standing, strode over, staring at Castiel from close range, obviously relieved.

"Castiel."

"Hester."

"Castiel. We thought you were—" Inias began, but was interrupted by an announcement.

"_**Balthazar. Captain, Balthazar. Zachariah will see you now."**_ Castiel's brow knit as Hester scoffed, glaring up at the intercom.

"Balthazar isn't here." She gestured to the empty waiting room behind them, frowning up at Castiel. "No one has heeded Metatron's Call but us." Castiel frowned as well, glancing at Inias behind her. The soft-spoken angel smiled helplessly at him.

"We were hoping to see you again, Castiel. We had thought you were Lost." Inias hesitated, but Castiel stepped forward to him, setting a serious gaze on his brother.

"I was merely waiting for Orders, Inias. There was no need to worry." Hester shook her head and resumed her pacing, and Castiel stood quietly beside Inias. It wouldn't be long before he would be called, if the last one had been Balthazar. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel noticed Inias staring at him peculiarly, as though puzzled by something. Castiel turned his head, addressing him.

"Does something trouble you, Inias?" The peace-loving angel smiled oddly at him, as though worried but not quite sure why.

"No, I—Well. Castiel, your Grace is—"

_**"Castiel. Captain, Castiel. Zachariah will see you now."**_

Inias had immediately silenced himself at the announcement, and Castiel followed protocol.

"I am needed, brother." Inias smiled at him, but it still seemed worried. Castiel set him with as solemn a gaze as he could, to reassure his subordinate that all was well. After a moment, Inias nodded and responded with the appropriate phrase.

"Go in Peace." Castiel nodded, in return.

"Serve the Lord." Castiel turned from Inias, walking across the room. He pushed the stark white door open and strode forward to check in with Zachariah's secretary. After giving his name and confirming his title and attendance, Castiel would be admitted to see Zachariah himself.

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,010, August-_

Dean didn't have a choice. He got in the Impala and drove out a ways until he came to a (pretty abandoned-looking) crossroads, and rummaged around in the trunk until he came up with what he needed. Unearthing a box from somewhere, he hurriedly stuffed a picture of himself, a handful of graveyard dirt, and a black cat bone into it. He strode to the center of the four streets (shaped like a cross, ironically) and dug a hole in the loose gravel, shoving the box into it and covering it up before straightening.

Anxious, he glanced around, and on the second pass he noticed a casually stylish man in a black suit watching him, hands in his long coat's pockets. Dean stared at him, jaw tense and posture rigid, and the man sized him up, accordingly.

"So, this is it?" His voice was British-accented, affected and snobby, his face round and aristocratic. Dean hated him immediately, but grit his teeth and let the man—demon, rather—advance.

"This is what." Dean ground out, tilting his head in a bit of defiance as the demon smirked at him.

"This is how the great Dean Winchester seeks to sell his soul? Over a little car accident?" The demon tutted to himself, shaking his head. "How unoriginal." He circled Dean with languorous steps, glancing off elsewhere and generally seeming a bit bored. "I must say, this is disappointing." Dean snapped at him.

"Do you want my soul or not! This is a one-time deal, you know." The demon smiled at him out of the corner of his mouth, eyes sly and calculating.

"Now, let's not be hasty. What's your soul worth to me?" Dean almost growled.

"How about ten years?" The demon chuckled, waving a hand and turning away.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. The world won't last that long." Glancing back at him over his shoulder, the demon grinned, merciless. "How about a year, for your baby brother's life?" Dean balked, almost shouting, as the demon easily turned to face him, still grinning.

"A _year? _That's not fair!" The demon raised a finger and wagged it.

"Ah, ah—I said, let's not be hasty." Dean glared at him. The demon sighed, dramatically, and instead waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Really, now, you could be a _bit_ more reasonable. I'm doing you a favor, after all." The demon leaned in, hands in his coat pockets again as he dropped his voice. "Your soul's not worth much, a year at best, but if you take this deal you save not-so-little Sammy, right? You want something that costs ten times what your soul's_ worth_, but since you've only got the one I'm cutting you a break." Dean growled.

"That's nine years I won't have with him, you unholy fucker." The demon leaned back, eying him.

"That's King of the Crossroads, to you, and if you want my help you're going to have to play nice, Dean." Dean locked his jaw, grinding his teeth together. The demon gazed at him in a facsimile of pity. "Your soul to revive Sam—nothing weird or wrong with him, I promise—and as a bonus you get one year before I come to collect." Dean remained stiff and unresponsive, and the demon sighed after a minute or so, turning away. He'd gotten about five steps before Dean walked up behind him, grabbing his arm.

"All _right._" Dean hissed, jerking the bastard around so he faced him. The demon smiled slowly, almost predatory, and romantically hooked an arm around Dean's neck.

"Knew you'd come around, love." Dean expected to be pulled down, but instead the demon stared expectantly up at him, still smirking. Then it hit him, and Dean snarled.

"You _bitch." _The demon chuckled, angling his face up for better access, expression mocking, and he pursed his lips in a fake pout.

"Come now, you're not afraid of a little man-on-man action, are—"

Dean kissed him just to shut him up, and the goddamned crossroads demon took full advantage of the lip lock, introducing a quite unwelcome tongue into the equation. Dean bore it, and when he was almost out of air, the kiss broke. Dean turned away, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve and ready to pretend that had never happened, but the demon cupped his cheek, forcing him back around and peering up at him with a grin.

"Name's Crowley, darling. I'll see you in a year." Just to be obnoxious, the demon leaned up and lightly pecked his nose. Dean couldn't take it anymore, and threw out an arm to deck him, but that damned Crossroads King had disappeared.

Dean stood in the middle of the crossroads, alone. After a minute he walked back to the Impala, got in and drove back to the scene of the accident. He could only pray that Crowley would hold up his end of the deal.

~END CHAPTER FIVE~


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 6/24

Word Count: 11,245

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: The Winchesters, Jessica Moore, Bobby, King of the Crossroads, Castiel, Zachariah, Uriel

Warning(s): Some blood, language.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, July 27, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_1 Corinthians 7:27 _

_Are you bound to a wife? Do not seek to be free. Are you free from a wife? Do not seek a wife._

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,010, August-_

Coming to consciousness slowly, Sam vaguely registered he hurt all over, his limbs achy and head tingling. Something dripped up the side of his face. Confused, he raised a hand, and the familiar consistency told him it was blood. Creaking his eyes open and seeing red on his fingertips confirmed this, but he couldn't comprehend what else he was seeing. Sam blinked, slowly, thoughts circling dizzily in his head as he tried to focus on the scene before him. His ears were ringing, making it hard to think beyond that high-toned whine. The windshield looked out on the road—the sky was _down_, how weird—but it was cracked in places, large spidery lines crawling over the glass and distorting the image. Finding it hard to take a breath, Sam felt for his seatbelt and found it was drawn tight across his chest and digging into his stomach. Tugging on it, he was surprised to find it straining, and belatedly realized that the belt was the only thing keeping him away from the mess of glass in front of him. Carefully stretching his legs out over the dashboard—enough to brace himself, but careful to avoid the broken windshield—Sam clicked the button to release the belt and dropped towards the ceiling of the car, hands splaying out to break his fall. Breathing heavily, Sam looked over to the driver's side, and felt his heart catch in his throat.

"J-Jess?" They'd rolled over, he realized, and slid down an embankment—right into a tree. Jess' side of the car was completely caved in, and her seat belt had kept her in place. She was slumped against it, hanging in gravity's pull and still unconscious. Sam reached a hand out to gently try and shake her awake.

"Jess—you've gotta—urgh." He shifted, wincing as bruised muscles complained, and moved slowly, putting his legs against the driver's-side door—and below her—as high up as he could manage, so she wouldn't crash into the car's ceiling. Sam reached for her seat belt, clicking it and it slid back with a snap, dumping Jess' full weight on his knees. Grunting with effort, Sam reached down and gently grabbed her arm, pulling her back up towards him. Suddenly tired, he slumped against the passenger's-side door, putting his arms around her and pressing his nose into her hair. Her stomach gently moved under his arms as she breathed, and he relaxed a little.

_Thank God. Thank God she's not…_

Something cold settled into his bones as he felt stickiness against his face. Eyes opening wide, Sam found himself staring at a mess of red matted into Jess' blond hair. He pulled her around to face him, smoothing his hand over her cheek and wiping more blood away. She didn't stir, nothing but utter dead weight in his arms. Sam carefully put his fingers in her hair, checking her skull for fractures and sighed in relief when he couldn' feel any.

_It's OK, she's just unconscious._

Pushing back his anxiety, Sam moved to try and escape, but the solid window against his back wouldn't budge. He groaned, holding Jess to his chest protectively as he tilted his head back in frustration. Sam sat there for a few minutes, unmoving, trying to collect his thoughts. Eventually, there was a distant sound of a familiar engine, and his eyes snapped open. The suddenly blinding light made him groan again, and Sam felt light-headed and fuzzy.

_I must be going into shock._

Jess still hadn't woken up, so he was careful not to shift her too much as he turned to peer out the window behind him. His sore muscles protested that move, but nothing stopped him from squinting at the figure climbing out of the car across the street. Now he was running towards them, coat flapping against his thighs.

"Sammy!" Sam smiled at that panicked yell, just a bit, and closed his eyes, whispering against Jess' hair.

"It'll be OK, Jess. Dean's here."

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,010, September-_

The self-proclaimed "King" _did_ hold up his end of the Deal, and Dean didn't see a trace of him afterwards. Which was good, as he'd put it out of his mind, swearing to himself never to tell Sammy. At the scene of the accident (for the second time, but no one was the wiser), Dean called an ambulance and helped Sam get Jess out of the car. She was still unconscious and it looked like her left leg and arm were broken, which would take a while to heal. The EMTs had looked at the car and were amazed Sam came out of it without a scratch. Jess' side had been the one that'd hit the tree, after they flipped, and it was lucky she'd survived.

Bobby had offered to drive them out to California in his van, and Sam grudgingly accepted, conceding it would be more comfortable for Jess than flying. She'd regained consciousness the same night of the accident, on the way to the hospital, and Sam had been right by her side, holding her hand the whole way. Dean couldn't find it in himself to be bitter about the attention Jess was getting—she'd almost _died_, after all. For a moment he wondered if Crowley'd had anything to do with her survival, but dismissed the thought. (Crowley didn't strike him as the type to be big on charity.) Still, he couldn't help but be uneasy. Something about that flaming car—from the original accident scene—didn't sit right with him.

Jess' metallic blue 2007 Honda Civic was sitting in the garage, ready to be fixed, so Dean followed his instinct and said he'd get started on it while Bobby drove them out. Dean looked over and under the seats, inside the glove compartment, and in every nook and cranny he could find. There was nothing, only a bit of sulfur indicating Crowley'd been around. Still, something hummed in the back of his head, telling him not to let go of his suspicion. Dean hoisted the car up in the lift, walking beneath it and surveying every inch. After a few minutes of absently running his fingers over the metal underside, he felt a strange symbol near the tailpipe, and squinted up at it. He didn't know what it was, but grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper and made an imprint of it. When he was finished, Dean felt his gut clench as he looked at the symbol.

It looked like Enochian.

_-Anno Domini 2,010, October-_

Dean spent most of October trying to hunt up more information on an angel being in the area. He didn't find much—no miracles, no doing of good deeds, nothing that suggested there was a possessed bastard radiating holiness anywhere nearby. The extraphysical field detector (EPF) didn't help in finding out anything he didn't already know, either. It was something Dean had invented a few years back, when his dad had first told him angels were no better than monsters, but just as real. His first Walkman had been sacrificed to build the electromagnetic field detector (EMF), and Sammy's old CD player had gone into making the EPF. Dean was actually sort of proud of it. The CD inside was actually just a dime-store Christmas music CD. It'd been owned and used by an angel they'd exorcised, who'd been possessing this girl for practically her whole life (sadistic bastards, all of them—stealing _lives_ like that!). Apparently it'd been a favorite, because even _Dean_ could feel the imprint of the dick's Grace on it, so they very carefully never touched it and kept it in the EPF.

Even though hunters had been going after them for a few years, a way to detect angels hadn't been discovered. Dean thought that maybe having a sample of Grace would be handy in helping a machine detect it. So Dean had tuned the CD player to recognize the Grace on the Christmas CD (by reading it with the little CD light), and then attached an antenna so it could read the airwaves for anything similar. Pressing the 'Play' button turned it on, 'Stop' naturally turned it off, and fiddling with the other controls changed the speed of the pulsing air wave. The 'Forward' button made the pulses more frequent, while the 'Back' button made them less frequent, and the volume control gave them an easy way to be quiet about the resulting hum. It made a sound not unlike a CD being burned, producing a high-pitched whine (that couldn't be contained by the volume control) when the EPF it was sensing was particularly powerful.

Dean'd taken it around Jess' car after finding the Enochian sigil, and it went crazy on Jess' side. He'd headed back to the scene of the accident and scanned around, finding a strong influence where the burning car had been (quite a different place than where he'd found it crashed into the tree, the second time). The trouble was, the further from the spot he got, the fainter the trail became, until there were only wisps of detectable Grace that barely caught the EPF's notice. The angel—whatever it'd done—had covered its tracks well, and Crowley's demonic presence screwed with the readings. Dean had found that, while demons didn't have Grace, precisely, they had something similar that the EPF would pick up on. Over time, Dean had found that both the EMF and EPF would react to a demonic presence. The more powerful demons usually got caught on the range of the EPF, while the EMF tended to detect weaker ones. But Dean didn't know what to think when he held the EPF and the EMF beside each other and saw that Crowley's energy registered on _both_ devices.

It couldn't mean anything good.

_-Anno Domini 2,010, November-_

Thanksgiving was bad. Somehow or other, Sam and Bobby had got an inkling that Dean'd done something incredibly stupid (Dean blamed it on spending more than half his life around them both), and when Sam came home for Jody's usual feast, Dean was point-blank confronted about it over the dinner table. (Luckily there was no one else invited, or else it could've been _very _awkward.)

"Dean. Bobby says you've been going out to bars and not coming home at night." Dean shifted in his seat, moving to grab the bowl of mashed potatoes and avoiding Sam's eyes.

"So is it against the law to enjoy life?" Dean _felt_ them exchange a Look as he took great care in spooning himself some gravy. He frowned to himself as Jody (seated on his right at the small square table) gently broke in.

"Dean. We're just worried." Dean grunted, shaking his head and stuffing a forkful of turkey in his mouth.

"It's _nothing,_ geez. Seriously, can't a guy bag the local tail without getting the third degree?" Sam scowled at him from across the table, forehead folding in on itself. (Dean didn't need to look up to know that's what Sam's face was doing.)

"Dean—"

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the Enochian sigil I found in the garage, imprinted on a piece of paper, would it?" Dean stiffened, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Bobby (seated on his left). Sam cast an incredulous look at Bobby.

"_Enochian?_ What? When were you going to clue me in on this!" Sam demanded of Dean, who snapped back at him.

"It was _months_ ago! I thought for a while an angel did it, but—"

"But the sulfur on the seats set you off?" Dean glared at Bobby, who stared back at him evenly. "What is it, boy. I found that same Enochian sigil on the tailpipe of Jess' car, but the sulfur doesn't add up." Dean averted his eyes, scowling at the tablecloth, and Sam's voice softened a bit.

"Dean. Just tell us. What happened?" Dean cut in, then, angry.

"You _know_ what happened! I got there, flames were everywhere and—"

"What?" Sam sounded breathless, and Dean cursed as he realized his slip, smacking his hand to his head and combing it frustratedly back over his hair.

"_Dammit!_"

"Dean, there was no—_"_

"No, shut up! I'm not talking about this!"

"Mind your tone, boy." Dean's mouth snapped shut at Bobby's sharp interruption, and he jerked around to stare at his stoic face, mouth a pentulant line. Dean took a slow breath, eyes closing briefly in frustration.

"_Look. _It's none of your business what happened. It's over and done with." Sam leaned forward, big brown eyes starting to look worried.

"What is, Dean? What did you do?" Dean pressed his lips together and pushed himself away from the table, turning to storm away. Bobby grabbed his elbow, standing as well, voice tough and crotchety in his ear. Dean didn't look at him, just kept staring straight ahead.

"That car was never on fire, son. What ain't you tellin' us?" Dean growled low in his throat, clearly unhappy.

"Just drop it, Bobby. You can't do anything." Sam rose, then, walking around the table and putting his hands on Dean's shoulders, staring right into his face.

"Dean. You didn't do anything stupid, did you?" Dean looked away, avoiding both of their gazes. Sam bit his lip, glancing at Bobby and Bobby frowned, eyes traveling from one brother to the other. His grip tightened on Dean's arm as he came upon a thought.

"Angels don't take orders from nobody, so it's got to be the demon." Dean flinched a little at that, and Bobby's eyes narrowed. He jerked Dean's arm to him, making the boy face him. "Are you gonna tell us the truth or ain't'cha?" Stubborn green eyes met hard blue. Bobby must've seen something Dean didn't want him to, because Bobby's eyes widened and he breathed a curse. "Balls." There was a flicker of fear in Dean's gaze, and his tone went warning.

"Bobby—"

"You _didn't."_

"Bobby, _don't _—"

"_Tell_ me you didn't make a goddamned _Deal!_" Dean winced, and Sam gaped in shock.

"What? No, but—Dean, why would you—" Frustrated at his secret being out, Dean ripped his arm from Bobby and shoved Sam's hands off his shoulders, stalking a few steps away, shoulders tight and hands fisted, his back to them.

"You were _dead_, OK Sammy?" Dean shook his head, eyes screwing shut as he saw the image in his mind. "That fucking car was a fucking _inferno, _and both you and Jess were _done_, extra crispy!" At this Dean whirled around, face contorting against a wave of complex emotion as he jabbed a finger at their surprised stares. "So don't you _tell _me I didn't have to do it, because—" He put a hand to his face suddenly, mouth working painfully. "Because I couldn't_ deal_ with you being gone, Sam. You're all I have left. Mom's gone, Dad's gone—I couldn't live with myself, knowing you were dead_. _So so _what_ if I made a Deal with a fucking demon! It's _my_ soul, and I—" Sam strode forward, grabbing Dean's arms and shaking him, voice almost broken.

"But you'll go to _Hell_, Dean. How long did you get? Ten years?" Dean winced—partly at the crushing grip and partly at his answer. He didn't meet Sam's eyes.

"No. One." Bobby let out another curse, and Dean tentatively peeked up at Sam, whose face was frozen in disbelieving horror.

"What?" Dean nodded, looking away again, voice softer, now.

"I got one year, Sammy. Demon said my soul wasn't worth ten." Sam inhaled quickly, and abruptly Dean found himself in a bear hug, his brother's choked voice buried in his shoulder.

"I'll find a way to get you out of this, Dean." Dean hid a pained smile in Sam's flannel-covered shoulder, arms lifting to clench tightly around his little brother in return.

"Don't think you can." Sam grunted something in a tone that said he would _find_ a way, and Dean swore he felt his bones _creak._

"Then they'll have to drag me down to Hell _with_ you." Dean laughed, weakly.

"Dude, don't joke about that." Dean couldn't imagine something worse than Sam suffering in Hell. It wasn't _right_, and Dean knew he'd do anything he could to prevent it. He'd have to trust Crowley that there was no way Sam could cancel his Deal, because Dean would _never_ agree to sticking Sammy there in his place.

He'd die first.

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,010, December-_

It was the Thursday before Winter Break officially began, and Sam's dorm was mostly deserted. Jess' leg had healed up fine, and her finals had finished up on Monday. She'd headed home on Tuesday, joking that she'd give Sam up to his brother and Bobby for the holidays, but she'd see him when the spring semester started. They'd shared a kiss and Sam'd hugged her tight, telling her to be careful. (He'd been a bit overprotective ever since the car accident—and _especially_ since Thanksgiving, when Dean had revealed that the demon who held his Deal and brought Sam back to life wasn't the _only _supernatural entity with fingerprints on Jess' car.)

Dean would be coming by to pick him up in the morning, so right now (with no more finals to study for, his last one being earlier today) Sam was packing a few clothes he'd need. He was also unplugging some of the appliances to save the school's bill on electricity while they were away.

"Sammy!" He rolled his eyes, shaking his head and not bothering to glance behind him.

"Brady, that got old in the first_ week_. Knock if off, already." His friend laughed, sauntering in and clapping a hand on his back. Sam sent him an exasperated look, to which Brady only grinned.

"C'mon, man, no finals, no ball-and-chain around to keep you tethered—let's go out and party!" Brady pumped his fist in the air and Sam huffed, moving to his dresser and tossing some socks into his briefcase.

"You know I'm dating Jess. Go without me." Brady shrugged.

"Dating doesn't mean you're _married_. C'mon. It's the last time we'll see each other until next year!" Brady's arms had swept up with the drama of his announcement, but Sam just cast his friend an easy smile over his shoulder.

"Jess's special, Brady. I want to do this right." Brady eyed him, then sighed, shaking his head and walking over to pat him on the shoulder.

"Man, have you got it _bad._ If I'd known you two'd become such googly-eyed lovebirds and leave me as the third wheel out—Hey!" Sam had shoved Brady in the shoulder (making him stumble), but was grinning.

"Shut up. We'll go out clubbing when I get back, OK? You, me and Jess. That way you can scour the night for a partner and I won't be cheating. Sound fair?" Brady eyeballed him dubiously, gaze scrutinizing.

"You promise? Won't try to weasel your way out of this and say you have to study?" Sam laughed, making to punch him lightly in the arm.

"You make me sound like a nerd!" Brady caught the punch in his hand, and thumped Sam upside the head.

"But you _are_ a nerd!" Sam swatted him away, but reached out his hand, smile a bit more genuine.

"OK, point taken. When we get back, we'll go out." Brady rolled his eyes but took the hand, shaking once, firmly.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I'll believe it when I see it." Brady shrugged, turning to head out, waving without looking back. "See ya, Sammy. Merry Christmas." Sam watched him walk for a ways, then turned back to his packing with a smile.

"Merry Christmas."

_-Anno Domini, 2,010, December, A Few Hours Later-_

The dorm was silent. It was a weird feeling. Usually, there were people coming and going at all hours, but with mostly everyone headed home already, it was practically deserted. Sam had finished packing and had watched a movie on his laptop before deciding to hit the hay. Dean was driving almost twenty-six hours to get here from Bobby's, and he didn't want to sleep in.

For some reason—even though Dean _himself _was infamous for enjoying his sleep—he always arrived ridiculously early in the morning on days when he had to pick Sam up at Stanford. (When it came to going _back _to Stanford, curiously enough, they practically had to drag Dean out of bed. Another reason Bobby had taken to drivng Sam and Jess back, the last time.) It made Sam wonder if Dean really arrived the night before, but slept in the Impala instead of coming inside.

Just about to drift off to sleep, Sam thought he heard someone call his name. Jerking his head, he tried to dispel the thought, but it only grew more insistent. There were suddenly footsteps outside his room, and Sam's eyes snapped open as the door was blown inward, a tall man standing in the shadows beyond, hands in his pockets. Sam rolled out of bed, grabbing the chair by his desk and lifting it high as a weapon. The figure chuckled.

"Oh, Sammy. Is that really the way to greet someone who's here to help you?" Sam hesitated, and the figure's eyes glinted in the moonlight from the open window as he stepped forward. Sam's hands tightened on the chair, holding it threateningly in front of him. His tone was guarded, clearly not buying a word of it.

"Help me how?" The figure sighed, and withdrew a hand from his pocket. Sam tensed on instinct, but the hand was empty. Then the figure waved it, and Sam was thrown back onto his bed, the chair flying out of his hands. He struggled to get free, but was pinned there, helpless, as the figure walked closer. Now more in the light, Sam could see that its eyes were yellow.

"Demon." Sam hissed in anger and fear, and the figure chuckled, tipping its head.

"Now, now, no need for name-calling. I'm Azazel."

"And why should I care?" Sam spat, still trying to get free from the invisible force keeping him supine on the bed. Azazel shook his head, and his smile was condescendingly paternal.

"Don't you want revenge on the angel who hurt sweet Jessica?" Sam stiffened abruptly, and the demon chuckled. "I thought that might get your attention."

"I-It was an _angel?_" Azazel grinned, showing yellowish teeth.

"That's what I said, Sammy-boy. Remember the Enochian sigil and sulfur in Jessica's car? Well—" He drawled, face clearly showing he was enjoying this _far_ too much. "The sulfur was from Crowley, the demon who holds your brother's Deal and who resurrected you. The Enochian was from the angel who caused your accident." Sam seethed, but still kept a handle on himself, glaring up at Azazel.

"I don't believe you. Angels are jerks, but they don't kill people." Azazel seemed perplexed for a moment, but then burst into laughter, shaking his head.

"Oh, I forgot! Crowley hid your memories of the first crash, of course. Let me see—" Azazel reached out a hand for Sam's forehead and Sam strained to get away, but now he couldn't move at all. Searing hot fingertips touched his skin and he cried out as something fiery clawed through his mind. At first it was excruciating, but then the burning presence found something cool and billowy. It ripped into it and images slammed before Sam's eyes.

_They were driving down that same patch of road, Jess laughing about something with her hands on the wheel. _

_Sam huffed as he messed with the roadmap, trying to fold it back up and having a tough time. _

_Suddenly, something jumped out on the road in front of them, and Jess slammed on the brakes. _

_A white glow enveloped everything, blinding them._

_Sam reached over to grab Jess' hand, but—it wasn't there. _

_Panic bled into him and he cried out her name, but nothing answered him. _

_Something white-hot touched the back of his neck, and Sam found he couldn't move. _

_He tried to look, but the light was too bright and the hold on him too strong. _

_Flames leapt up around him, and he thought he heard someone calling his name. _

_His world exploded in fire and pain, and then there was only darkness._

Sam came back to himself with a gasp, the demon's fingertips withdrawing from his forehead. Panting, he tried to blink the whiteness out of his eyes and Azazel chuckled.

"Darn annoying, isn't it, that Grace. Such an irritating tool for them to keep their anonymity." Sam shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Why—Why are you showing me this?" Azazel peered down at him for a moment, then a slow smile crept over his face.

"I hate angels being down here on Earth, Sam. They have no right to mess with people—that's _demons'_ work." He canted his head, eyes flicking over Sam's face. "I won't ask for your answer right now, but I know the angel who caused that accident." Sam's eyes widened, but Azazel held up a hand. "Wait, wait, I've got more. I can give you their name and the spell to Summon them right into your hands, if you'd like." The demon grinned again. His teeth were sharper. "Think about it, Sammy. Merry Christmas!"

Azazel disappeared, and Sam found himself jerking up in his bed as though from a nightmare.

Sam doesn't tell Dean about Azazel. On the ride back to Sioux Falls, he's silent and brooding and doesn't complain once about Dean's 'metalhead' music. Dean figures Sam's just worn out after finals and on the second day of driving switches to a tape of his that he knows Sam doesn't loathe as much as the rest. Sam notices, and loosens up a little, and the rest of the drive is spent in an amiable silence.

Christmas Day comes and goes with their usual traditions, and it isn't until two days later that Sam runs into Azazel again. He's taking out the trash, late at night—Bobby and Jody and Dean are asleep—and about to turn in, himself, when the demon greets him out of the darkness of the car lot.

"Hello, Sam." He spins around, and the motion-sensor floodlight that'd turned on with his steps illuminates Azazel's meatsuit. His yellow eyes glimmer, and an arrogant smirk adorns his face. Sam frowns, eying the demon distrustfully and moving a hand to be ready to grab his gun, if need be.

"Azazel." The demon smiles at him, tipping his head to the side.

"Have you made your decision?" Sam eyes him, licking his lips in thought.

"Just one question." Azazel grins, spreading his arms.

"Ask away!" Sam takes a breath, but never moves his eyes from the demon.

"Why do you want me to do it? Why don't you do it yourself?" Azazel peers at him, then sighs, shaking his head and letting his arms flop back down.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. I'm a _demon._ One pinch of that holy smiting Grace and I'm _dust._" Then he grins, again. "The simple truth is that even though I hate the bastard's _guts_, you'd stand a better chance of getting the jump on him. So what's it gonna be, Sammy?" Azazel slides his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. The gravel crunches under them. Sam observes Azazel, considers his feelings of the last few days, considers how he could have _lost_ Jessica just because some angel wanted _him_ dead—how Jessica could've _died_, just for being _connected_ to him, because of some stupid angel's unfounded grudge…

Sam closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

"Give me the name."

: : :

Dean feels a sudden powerful presence in the car lot and springs out of bed, the gun he sleeps with under his pillow in hand. He doesn't waste time and scrambles out into the hall, jumping down the stairs and bursting out the back door with a yell.

"G't outta here b'fore I fill you f'll o' lead!" What greets Dean as he blinks the fuzziness of sleep from his eyes is Sam staring at him in disbelief.

"Uh, Dean? I thought you were asleep." [1] A short figure is standing a good distance away inside a circle of fire, and a man with yellow eyes grins at Dean before vanishing. Dean looks around, double-takes at realizing it's an _angel_ in the fiery circle and then looks at Sam, incredulous.

"Where'd _you_ get holy oil!" He demands, stomping up to Sam and getting right in his face. "And what's going on here? Some—" Dean spirals a hand around in the air, trying to articulate what his issue is. "Some secret-angel-meeting thing?" Sam snorts at him, impatient but willing to concede that Dean won't calm down until he's been filled in.

"Don't be stupid. Remember the accident? _This_ guy—" Sam points a thumb at the trapped angel, who's looking rather annoyed, by this point (which would be scary if he weren't penned in). "—is the one who caused it." Dean blinks, frowning and looking over at the angel who shoots him a glare.

"Um, OK. Great. How'd you catch him?" Dean squints at the grumpy angel, who now scowls at him. Sam's tone is evasive.

"I, uh—does it really matter? He's here now, and—"

"Look, is this gonna take long? Because I was in the middle of an orgy and this isn't really doing it for me." The angel says, deadpan, and Sam gapes while Dean finds himself hard-put not to snicker. He can't quite resist making a comment, though.

"What, you into all those 'nubile young virgins'? Some angel you are." The angel casts him a sarcastic smirk, his eyes dry with humor.

"Try porn stars, Dean-o." Dean blinks, then abruptly exclaims, pointing at him.

"Hey! I've seen you before!" The angel sighs.

"Oh, his brain's kicked in." Sam looks at Dean like he's gone crazy.

"What are you talking about?" Dean shakes his head, and laughs a little.

"It's that Trickster I told you about. Remember? All those strange happenings?" Dean grins, a bit. "The guy dancing with an alien? I _know_ I told you about that." Sam's eyes start to widen, and he glances back at the angel, mouth open.

"No way." The angel offers them a mocking grin with a matching half-salute.

"Heya." Dean snorts, walking a bit closer to the circle, taunting.

"So how'd you end up getting trapped here, eh? Pretty clumsy of you." The Trickster scowls at him, then jerks his head to indicate Sam behind him.

"Your brother's messing around with the wrong crowd. I'd keep an eye on him if I were you." Dean blinks, then turns and Sam averts his eyes.

"Sam?" It's just now that Dean notices the silver dagger-like thing in Sam's right hand. He points to it. "What's that." Sam shifts his weight, walking a few steps away from Dean, but now he's on the other side of the circle, closer to the angel than he was.

"It's something that can kill angels." Dean's brows rise, and his tone curls with suspicion.

"Oh?" Sam nods, but the angel in the circle of fire helpfully pipes up.

"He got it from Azazel." Dean's gaze zones in on Sam's guilty face like a laser.

"Who's Azazel?" Sam looks uncomfortable, but before he can answer, the angel cuts in once more.

"He's a demon." Dean twists his head towards Sam in furious amazement.

"_What?_ Sammy, you're trusting intel from a _demon_? That thing could be cursed!"

"Hey, he said it would work!" Dean huffs.

"Yeah, sure, why don't you go _get within striking distance_ of the angel you've _pissed off_ by _trapping in that_ _circle_ and we'll see how that little dagger holds up, huh?" Sam fumes, glaring at him and Dean sets his jaw. They're interrupted by a bored British voice.

"Now, now, boys, don't fight." Sam and Dean spin around, and Crowley—King of the Crossroads—grins back at them from Bobby's back door. "Unless you'd like to put on some leather, first. I could help with that." The demon winks at Dean and Dean snarls.

"What're _you_ doing here?" Crowley tuts, smiling indulgently (but _not _patiently) at them.

"Protecting my interests. You honestly think you can kill an angel with _that?" _He casts a cursory glance at Sam's silver sword distastefully, then flicks his gaze up to Sam's face. "One of Azazel's schemes, no doubt." Dean explodes, at that, practically sizzling with annoyance.

"What, does _everybody_ know this Azazel guy but me?" Crowley ignores him, instead gazing seriously at Sam.

"Think about it, Moose. Do you really want _all of Heaven_ on your back? Killing an Archangel for a bit of petty revenge isn't too smart." Dean starts in shock.

"An _Archangel?"_ Crowley sighs, closing his eyes and waving a hand as though trying to physically move the conversation along.

"Did I stutter? Yes, he's an Archangel. Meet Gabriel—but then, Sam, you already knew_ that_, didn't you?" Crowley gives Sam a pitying smile and shakes his head. "Take it from me, kid—don't get involved with Azazel. He does favors for no one but Lucifer."

"Then why'd he give me _this?_" Sam challenges, brandishing the small silver sword. Crowley gives him a bored glance but pauses, taking a closer look at the blade. This time, he blinks as though thoroughly surprised. The crossroads demon tilts his head and Dean feels the hairs on the back of his neck go up as Crowley's eyes narrow.

"…Hm. I'd thought _that _was long-gone. Well. In that case, you take another step towards Gabriel with _that _and Dean, our Deal is off." Crowley's tone is steel and Dean squawks at him.

"_What? _Hey, that's not fair! No backsies!" Crowley levels Dean with a cold smile, his tone icy.

"Your soul isn't worth the offing of an angel—much less an angel _not _affiliated with Heaven. I won't lose an ally just because Not-So-Jolly Green over there's decided he wants _revenge._" Crowley scoffs, eyes drawn to Sam again, narrow and annoyed. "Let me guess—Azazel's idea?" Sam purses his lips at him and Crowley smirks, gloating under his breath. "Knew it." Dean brings up his hands (gun long-discarded on the gravel) and tries to disperse the tension.

"Hey, hey, everybody calm down. Sam, drop the sword." Sam gawks at Dean, indignant.

"_Dean! _This is the angel who made you _sell _your _soul!"_ Dean keeps steady, his gaze firm.

"No one _made_ me do anything, Sammy. Jess's alive, _you're_ alive, and I've got another eight months to spend with you before my time's up. I wouldn't trade fifty more years for your life, any day." Sam's starting to waver, Dean can see it in the way his eyebrows are all bunching up, his gaze growing soft and sappy.

"Dean—" Dean clears his throat, looking away.

"C'mon, Sam. I made a Deal that I don't regret, and don't intend to welch on my half of it." Crowley interjects with a cough.

"_Right_, well, this is positively _heart-warming_—cute puppies and rainbows all around—but any chance we might speed it up a bit? Some of us have lives to get back to." Dean snorts.

"Yeah, like harvesting souls?" Crowley sniffs at him.

"It's not _all_ I do, you know. One learns to appreciate the finer things in life after Hell." Sam bites his lip, glancing at Gabriel again. Gabriel stares back impassively, arms crossed over his chest. His face seems almost eerie in the flicker of the holy flame.

"Why'd you do it?" Sam asks. Gabriel smirks at him, a little.

"You have no idea what the planet's gearing up for, kid. But it doesn't matter now." The Archangel sighs heavily, tilting his head back to gaze up at the stars, his mouth curved in a wry almost-smile. "Guess I'll just go back to enjoying the view." Sam's mouth twists in anger and affront lines his muscles. Dean catches sight of this and steps forward, tone warning, worried (and a little pleading) all at once.

"Sam." Sam sighs, and lets the sword fall with a _chink_ onto the loose gravel.

"Excellent! Well, this has been a real _thriller_ of a night, hasn't it?" Crowley snaps his fingers, and the circle of fire around Gabriel goes out. The angel glares at him.

"You _could've_ done that from the beginning, you know." Crowley gives him a cheeky smile.

"Where's the fun in that? See you at home, love." Gabriel disappears with a rustle of wings and Crowley turns to Sam and Dean, smirking at them.

"Good choice, boys. Enjoy the new year." His eyes glide over to Dean, his gaze turning a bit covetous. "See _you_ in August, darling." Dean scowls, but the demon's already gone. He sighs, and grabs Sam's arm, dragging him back towards the house.

"C'mon. Back to bed with you."

"Hey! I'm not a kid anymore—"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch, Cinderella. No, don't say a word! I promise you'll make it in before the spell ends at midnight and you revert back to the _little girl _you really are."

"_Dean!"_

[1] And yet, no one had bothered to wonder why all the commotion hadn't woken either Bobby or Jody.

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, June-_

In front of a sterile white wall, the secretary peered up at him from behind her sterile white desk, unsmiling. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, brown horn-rimmed glasses framing her face and a modest, ruffled white blouse revealing her neckline. Castiel returned her look, his tone clear and to-the-point.

"Nanael." After a standard appraisal (in which Castiel patiently bore her Grace feeling out his own), she nodded. Her voice was bland.

"Castiel." Nanael reached into a stack of papers to her left and produced a small sheet, setting it out before him. "Please sign here to record your attendance." Castiel took the unremarkable white pen on his side of the desk, writing his True Name in gold on the line at the bottom of the paper. It glowed briefly for a moment, before disappearing. When he looked up, Nanael was watching him, face still impassive, the combined tops of her hands supporting her chin. He saw her eyes flicker, once, with some unknown thought.

"Nanael?" She seemed to hesitate, but then spoke.

"It is good to see Earth has agreed with you." She frowned, just the slightest pull downward of her mouth, but continued staring at him, unblinking. "Many of us were worried, with your long lapse in communication, that you had been Lost." Castiel bowed his head in thanks for the thought, gazing seriously at her.

"I thank you for your concern, brother." Something small tugged at a corner of his mouth, barely noticeable. Of course they were all a family, but it was still nice to know his absence had been noticed. "At first I was uneasy, as well, but after contacting Aniel—"

"_Aniel!"_ Nanael's eyes had gone wide behind her lenses, and she rose, palms flat on the desk and fingers splayed as she leaned in towards him, her voice almost a hiss. "You've spoken with _Aniel?" _Castiel felt his thoughts scatter in confusion, and frowned at his brother.

"Yes, of course." Nanael looked at him, aghast, but the crackle of the intercom interrupted her.

"_Nanael. You may send Castiel in, now." _That was Zacharaiah's voice, calm and confident as a colonel's should be. Nanael stared at Castiel a moment longer, clearly warring with something, but then—"_Nanael? Is there a problem with my Order?"—_she sighed, pressing the intercom button and waving a hand to shoo Castiel towards Zachariah's door.

"No, sir, I apologize. He is coming now." Castiel caught a brief worried glance cast his way, before Nanael pressed another button and the door swung open before him. He entered.

Zachariah, reclined back in a padded chair, grinned at him from behind his large wooden desk. The room around them was paneled in a rich, deep-colored wood with pictures and filing cabinets. It was a stark contrast to the bland whiteness of the waiting room and Nanael's desk. (Privately—and buried quite far and safe within Castiel's Grace—Jimmy thought it looked sort of how he imagined a lawyer's office to look.) Zachariah waved a hand towards himself, inviting Castiel further in as well as shutting the door behind him.

"Castiel! Always so _good_ to see you." Castiel bowed his head in deference to his superior, but otherwise kept his posture straight.

"Zachariah."

"Please, have a seat! No need for you to be so uncomfortable." Castiel complied, and moved towards one of the two smaller chairs that had appeared before Zachariah's desk. Once he was seated, Castiel realized his chair put him a few inches shorter than Zacharaiah. He straightened as best he could so as not to seem too short, gazing seriously at the higher angel.

"Hallowed be Our Father's name." Zachariah grinned at him again, and leaned over his desk, responding easily but clearly delighted at the respect Castiel was affording tradition.

"His Kingdom come, His Will be done." Castiel took his cue, bowing his head and averting his eyes downward.

"On Earth as it is in Heaven." Zachariah laughed, pointing a finger at Castiel and winking.

"Oh, I _knew_ I liked you, kid. But let's get down to business, shall we?" The higher angel leaned back, propping his feet on his desk and steepling his fingers. His gaze was now more serious than amiable. Castiel straightened a bit more, keeping eye contact.

"Yes, sir." Zachariah smiled, at that.

"Castiel. It has come to my attention that you have been stationed on Earth for—oh, what was it?"

"Twenty-three years this past May, sir." Zachariah nodded, humming thoughtfully.

"Yes, that's it. Quite a long time to be out of contact with Heaven." Sharp eyes narrowed, now. "Care to offer an explanation?" Castiel cleared his throat, and began speaking.

"Sir. As Ordered, I merged with a fetus in 1988, awaiting further instructions concerning the apocalypse." Zachariah nodded, motioning for him to continue. "In 2003, the Foretold Date was revealed to me." [2] Zachariah frowned, holding up a hand, and Castiel obediently paused in his narrative.

"In 2003? Why did you not receive notice in 2000, with the rest of the Host?" Castiel felt his jaw clench, as he was uncomfortable with the subject (and because Aniel had already chastised him about it), but still, duty-bound, he answered.

"Sir. I employed a technique which had the unforeseen result of preventing me from communicating with Heaven between the years of 1994 and 2003." Zachariah straightened in his chair and leveled Castiel with a deadly cool gaze.

"Castiel. Are you admitting to _willingly_ cutting yourself off from Heaven?" Castiel stiffened, but his voice remained serene.

"No, sir. I had not intended to become cut off. I have already explained the details of my actions to Aniel. Perhaps, if it is appropriate, she would be better-suited to recommending a suitable punishment." Zachariah's brows had knit further together at what he perceived as arrogance, but they then rose in surprise at this humble statement.

"Punishment?" Castiel averted his eyes to the floor again, ashamed, and there was a long silence as Zachariah pondered over this new information. He eyed the captain shrewdly from over his desk. If Castiel was recommending that his punishment come from Aniel, that could only mean he didn't know she'd Descended. But, if that was the case… "Castiel." The angel looked up at the sound of his name.

"Yes, sir?" Zachariah smiled paternally at him, shaking his head and heaving a sigh. He turned in his seat, tapping his fingers over the tops of his rich wooden filing cabinets.

"When did you speak to Aniel about this?"

"In 2008, sir." _No hesitation, again._ _Good. _Zachariah nodded, and moved to open a drawer, pulling out a folder on Castiel (which had never physically existed before this moment), and leafing through it.

"Do continue."

"Sir?" Zachariah waved a hand, impatient, but did not take his eyes off the record.

"Describe what happened. What did she tell you?" Zachariah felt a moment's hesitation from Castiel, but also noted that when he spoke, this time, Castiel sounded unsure.

"Sir. After hearing of my technique, Aniel Ordered that I not contact Heaven—" Zachariah's fingers tightened on the folder, but he didn't interrupt. "—nor seek out any brothers, nor seek out or try to contact her. I was uncertain as to why Heaven instructed her to deliver those Orders, but—"

"And 2008 was the last time you spoke with brother Aniel?" Zachariah's tone was harsh, but Castiel took the interruption in stride, responding solemnly.

"Yes, sir. She said I was to await further Orders, and that I would see her in a few years." Zachariah realized how fortuitous it was that he'd wasted no time in picking up the members of Aniel's garrison. A few thoughts occurred to the colonel, and Zachariah rotated his chair slightly around, now gazing measuredly at Castiel.

"But you haven't heard from her, since?"

"No, sir." Zachariah's eyes narrowed.

"Have you heard from any other members of your garrison? Balthazar, perhaps?" Zachariah noticed that Castiel's forehead seemed to wrinkle in on itself (due to a troubling thought, perhaps?) at the mention of his fellow captain. The pause wasn't for long, though, and Castiel did not once look away (he had nothing to hide, apparently, and Zachariah didn't sense he was lying).

"No, sir. My meeting with brother Aniel in 2008 was the last time I saw any members of my garrison until today." Zachariah raised a brow at him.

"Until today?" Castiel blinked at him, visibly confused.

"Sir? Inias and Hester were in the waiting room when I arrived." Zachariah tipped his head just slightly, watching the lesser angel. Castiel's only response was to meet his eyes, his gaze stalwart and open. Zachariah quashed the urge to smirk, and returned his attention to the folder in his hands. He tapped a few lines of text with his index finger, slowly turned pages and hummed thoughtfully to himself. Castiel straightened, eyes curious but the angel otherwise restrained himself from leaning forward. Zachariah remained engrossed in his reading for another few minutes (purposefully making the lesser angel wait). But Castiel was patient, and did not disrupt the colonel's line of thought.

"Hmmm." At long last, Zachariah closed the folder, tutting disapprovingly as he shook his head. He cast a pitying glance towards the lesser angel. "Castiel, you've really dug yourself in quite the hole. Aniel has already recommended numerous appropriately severe punishments for your dreadful show of initiative. If Father heard of this, he would be very disappointed." Castiel's gaze dropped to the floor, again, and Zachariah smiled to himself.

"Sir. I submit to His will. If I have committed any wrong, I humbly beg to be corrected." Zachariah tapped an index finger against his desk, and leaned back in his chair, legs stretching out under the desk. The wheels squeaked against the floor as he shifted, gazing upwards (presumably at the richly wooden, paneled ceiling).

"Castiel. I wish I could help you, but this is your _loyalty_ being called into question." Zachariah shook his head, sighing sadly and peering at the lesser angel. "A simple re-education will not suffice." He let Castiel stew on that, for a moment, before continuing, gesturing with an open hand to indicate him.

"Honestly, you seem obedient enough to _me_—seem to have learned your lesson, even. Father probably understands that. But you know those Archangels—Aniel was special, bless her—always wanting us to dot the i's and cross the t's." Castiel quietly assented (even if he didn't quite understand the expression). He still hadn't looked up, and Zachariah felt a smirk coming on.

"Unless!" Zachariah gasped, painting his face with sudden realization as the lesser angel's head snapped up. Castiel stared at him. Zachariah sized him up, then sighed, shaking his head and waving a hand, dismissively.

"No, no—that's asking too much. You've been essentially alone on Earth for over twenty years, and you've likely softened. Even an angel who's been in Heaven would be hard-pressed to complete this mission." To Zachariah's great (hidden) amusement, Castiel seemed to lift himself up at that, gaze full and resolute.

"Sir. I promise you, I have not softened on Earth. If there is a mission you would recommend to restore Father's faith in me, I would be honored to take part in it." _How eloquent. _Zachariah allowed himself a small smile, and gauged the angel before him.

"Well…" Zachariah began slowly, drawing out the moment, satisfied to see that Castiel was rapt. "There _is_ a mission I've been putting together, to be executed in a few months. You would be working on a team. Castiel, this is of utmost importance. Do you honestly believe yourself to be every inch the warrior you were before your time on Earth? Are you still capable enough not to drag your brothers down?" Castiel's face hardened in resolve, and he stood at once, shoulders rigid and unmoveable.

"Sir. I consider myself capable of aiding in such a mission." Zachariah continued to watch him, face impassive and tone warning.

"But it is not only a question of your capability. The members of this team are only those angels most loyal to Heaven. Anyone else would not survive. Your loyalty to God must be absolute. There is no room for being led astray by former superiors or comrades. Do you understand, Castiel?" Zachariah noticed Castiel almost frowned, at that, but was pleased to see that the uncertainty was beaten out by faith. The lesser angel's voice was quieter, now, but still held a steely undertone of conviction. Castiel did not avert his eyes, so Zachariah could see the genuine will to Serve shining within them.

"Sir. I understand." Zachariah nodded, and stood, hands sliding to his pockets.

"I will take this up with Him. If He does not approve, the only place you'll be going is the HRC [3] offices. Am I clear?"

"Sir. I will gratefully accept whichever course Father deems appropriate." Zachariah nodded, smiling slightly.

"Excellent. I will contact you soon. For now, why don't you enjoy being home?"

"Yes, sir."

[2] In 2000 (when the rest of the Host's memory was altered to have the apocalypse date set for May 21, 2011), Castiel was still hibernating, and did not receive the update. In 2003, when he began to wake from inside Jimmy, Castiel finally received the 2000 update. From 2003 to May 21, 2011, he would believe May 21, 2011, to be the apocalypse date. However, by June 2011, Castiel would not remember that the apocalypse date announced to him in 2003 was the 2011 one. The simplest explanation is that, after the unsuccessful apocalypse of May 21, 2011, Castiel's (and everyone in the Host and Legion, barring those of the highest order) memories would have been altered to reflect that the apocalypse date had always been December 21, 2012. Further, it was considered common knowledge that everyone had been informed of the 2012 date in 2000 (except for Castiel, of course, who was informed when he woke in 2003).

[3] Heaven's Rehabilitation Curriculum

_-Anno Domini 2,011, July-_

Time moved strangely in Heaven, as compared to Earth. What felt like a few days to Castiel was (when he checked Earth) actually a month. It did not matter, though. Upon re-entering Zachariah's waiting room, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that eight other angels of his garrison had heeded Metatron's Call. Aniel, he was shocked to find, had Descended only two months hence. As the only Archangel who commanded a garrison, the reverberations of her Descent were still acutely felt in Heaven. But there was no time to dwell on the loss of Aniel—Michael, Raphael and Uriel (as her fellow Archangels, and the only ones who remained in Heaven to perform such rites) would see that the proper steps were taken.

Barring Aniel and Balthazar, the rest of Castiel's garrison was present. All nine of the subordinates (including his lieutenant Rachel, Inias and Hester) were accounted for, as well as the third captain, Portia. Castiel was relieved to see they were all safe, but in the back of his thoughts he worried for their absent first captain. Balthazar was a great warrior, and wise, so only something truly insurmountable could have kept him from answering Metatron's Call. Castiel's disquiet only increased when he tried to search for Balthazar and could not locate even a trace of him. Castiel, as second captain (and Balthazar's equal in rank), proposed that they accept the worst. Portia weighed in her third by concurring, and she and the other members of his garrison prayed with him for the strength to overcome the loss of their brave captain (and, being able to take no action, they also prayed to overcome the loss of Aniel).

The rest of Heaven, however, was not so heavily weighed down with sorrow, and their brothers greeted Castiel and his garrison warmly as they rejoined the Choir (after the proper period of mourning), lending their Voices to profess the Glory of their Father. Finally, he was amidst familiar serenity, and could not remember a time when he felt more complete. Heaven was his home. It was not a paradise (not like for the humans who came here), but it was safe and secure, never-changing. Castiel had been absent from the company of his brethren for over twenty years, but that was a blink compared to the time he had been alive. Strange, that a few decades should have made him forget the all-encompassing acceptance he felt, here—the sense of _belonging_. Even when Castiel had walked on Earth with the Son, a little less than two millennia ago—even then, he hadn't forgotten the call of Heaven, whispering for him to always return home.

Still, Castiel almost felt as though he had lost something.

_-Anno Domini 2,011, August-_

Angels did not dream. Angels did not sleep, so dreaming, naturally, was impossible. What, then, was it? What were these images that would sometimes play in front of his mind like a memory? They were blurred, indistinct, full of echoing voices and distorted senses. This in itself was strange, because—without a vessel—angels could not experience such things. Perplexed, Castiel signed into the Infirmary, describing his symptoms. His brothers frowned at him, put out their hands and tugged and pulled at his Grace. (It did not hurt, how could it, for it was contact bourne of love.)

One suggested manifesting, and the others agreed. As one, they slid out of their natural states as wavelengths and molecules, and his brothers (beings of insubstantial light, now) were surprised at Castiel's human visage. He would have explained, but something caused him to gasp, falling to his knees as memories screeched in his mind in sudden intensity, playing back like a movie reel caught in fast-forward. Castiel felt the danger of his human body's mind catching fire (unable to handle the sudden playback) as it hyperventilated and so he enfolded his Grace around the heat, trying to lessen the pull. A voice not his own burst out, disturbing in its humanity.

"Castiel! Make it stop, _please_! _**Please**_, it hurts—"

"_Jimmy_." The angel whispered, half-terrified and half-shocked, eyes wide. Seeing only one route, Castiel gathered himself and returned to a mere wavelength, making the burn more bearable until it disappeared entirely. His medically-trained brothers still floated nearby, but Castiel—ashamed of his weakness, as it were—only cradled Jimmy close to the core of his Essence and took wing. He landed in the heaven of an avid mountain climber, somewhere near the top of Mt. Everest. A sudden insight lent him a possible theory, and so Castiel allowed his human vessel to manifest, carefully keeping a line to his metaphysical self in case the earlier incident tried to repeat itself.

Nothing. The mountain climber smiled up at him, waving. Castiel thought himself invisible and the man blinked (at where he still was), then looked around, clearly confused. It was an interesting bit of information. On the tail-end of this realization came a faint, sluggish murmur.

"Castiel? …What—What happened?" Brushing off his worries, Castiel cleared his mind, radiating calm and wrapping Jimmy within the feeling. As humans craved such things, Jimmy curled himself sleepily into it. His slumber-leaden voice made Castiel pause.

_"Jimmy. Have you been dreaming?" _The lethargic presence in his mind mumbled something back, just as Castiel felt him slipping away.

"Mm, yeah. Nothing else to do here… but… sleep…" With that, Jimmy was gone, cocooned in Grace, once more. Castiel felt himself in a conundrum as to this course of events. How was it possible? In his True Form, Castiel could exist in Heaven and travel just as any angel would, but the moment he physically manifested inside an angelic zone, his vessel was overriden with Jimmy's memories. By contrast, when in a human zone of Heaven, his vessel seemed perfectly at peace—just as it was when Castiel controlled it on Earth. What could have possibly caused this sudden intensity?

Feeling an unavoidable, unpleasant truth pull at him, Castiel realized and accepted that he was in no condition to complete any mission of Zachariah's—whether Father approved or not.

_-Anno Domini 2,011, September-_

Castiel summed up his courage and point-blank admitted his weakness when Zachariah came to inform him of the projected timeframe for this all-important mission.

"Castiel! Just the angel I was looking for. Our sources say the mission will start in late October. We'll need you to—"

"Sir. I am no longer competent. I cannot accept this mission." Zachariah stopped, and stared at him.

"Excuse me?" Castiel stared back at him, pained and honest—but honest, all the same.

"Sir. Surely you've heard what happened. I am no longer dependable in battle." Zachariah's eyes narrowed, and he tipped his head.

"You mean that little squabble in the Infirmary?" Zachariah laughed, waving a hand, unconcerned. "It's taken care of, don't worry about it." Castiel felt his molecules shudder with shame.

"No, sir. I admit it freely. In my condition—" Zachariah leveled him with a heavy stare, and Castiel fell obediently silent. He was still conflicted. Zachariah examined him for a moment, then smiled.

"Look, Castiel, I appreciate the honesty, but we _need_ you on this mission. If I thought you couldn't handle it, I wouldn't risk your teammates' lives by sending you. What kind of boss would that make _me?"_ Castiel felt himself relax, just a bit, but he still felt horrible.

"Yes, sir." Zachariah eyed him, gauging his internal reaction. He shook his head.

"You're one of a kind, kid. But as I said, we're looking at around the end of October, early November. Why don't you get some practice in? The time'll pass like _that._" Zachariah snapped his fingers, mentally sending him a suggested training regimen, and Castiel nodded.

"Yes, sir."

_-Anno Domini 2,011, All Saints' Day-_

Castiel and his garrison stood before the portal, holy armor and weapons glinting against the dying light. Zachariah had announced to him that Aniel's garrison would be the one to fulfill this mission, as all the angels had clearly proven their loyalty by returning to Heaven when their superior had Descended, essentially abandoning them. Zachariah had said he was proud that there still existed brothers loyal to Heaven above all else, and that this mission was their reward.

They were to break into Hell, and raise the soul of the Righteous Man.

In front of Castiel and Portia stood Uriel, the sole Archangel of their group who was taking point, and would blast the garrison's way down into the deepest depths of Hell. Behind Castiel and Portia, the nine subordinates readied their blessed shields. Old memories stirred with the clink of metal, and Castiel recalled when the Fallen had used iron—in both their weapons _and _armor. Iron did not harm angels, after all, and Fallen Angels were still of angel stock. But once Lucifer had tortured the first human soul into the first demon, it was discovered that iron harmed her kind, and so he commanded that Hell's use of it in battle cease immediately. Lucifer could not use his devout followers if they were weakened by their own Fallen, after all. (He seemed to have no qualms, however, about using iron to ward off specific areas of Hell. This resulted in few deeper caverns to only be accessible by the Fallen.)

Over time, the amount of mutated human souls in Hell grew to outnumber the Fallen leading their ranks, and so the term 'demon' expanded its definition. On Earth, now, there was hardly a shade of difference between a 'demon' and a 'Fallen Angel', but Heaven and Hell knew the truth. Demons were only mutated human souls who had crawled or been Summoned back to Earth, while Fallen Angels were the last remains of about a legion of angels in Heaven who had sided with Lucifer. Fallen Angels would not be harmed by their Hell-wrought iron armor and weapons, but Lucifer was strict in his demand that all of it be destroyed, so his children could run unafraid in his domain. Fallen Angels were Lucifer's brothers, but he had been an Archangel, and they followed him. A Fallen had not been seen in one of those ancient suits or wielding one of those forbidden weapons in millennia.

Luckily, the blessed iron weapons the subordinates were now preparing would help carve the angels' way into the heart of Hell, dispersing demons without the very obvious risk of not affecting Fallen. For this close-range a battle, the entire garrison was outfitted with Grace-imbued swords and armor. (If their Grace ran out, the iron would at least allow the subordinate angels to cut through any demons barring their path. At that point, the Fallen would be left to Uriel and the captains.) Uriel had an ancient flaming sword, the kind of which only a few were left in existence.

In the Beginning, one careless angel had lost sight of his sword, and the Horseperson War had taken it up, physically unleashing mayhem and death with her own two hands until she was banished back into the hearts of Man. That sword was never recovered, however, so it was never known who had lost it. From then on it was decreed only Archangels and angels with special permission _from _an Archangel should be allowed to wield them, and—given the terrifying power such holy flaming swords possessed—Heaven had strictly enforced this rule. As it were, seven flaming swords were held in the Archives, each belonging to an Archangel, should he wish to wield it. Uriel's now sat in his palm, the ultimate holy force against the fires of Hell. Being the First Archangel (and therefore his sword being the First in All Creation), it was very powerful. Aniel's sword was beside it, then Zaphiel's, Michael's, Raphael's, Lucifer's and Gabriel's. All were accounted for, all under high security. It was rumored that there were more flaming swords hidden away in the Archives, but no angel had ever seen the need to search for them. The Archangels provided, and ruled well so that God could focus on more important matters of existence. But the simple truth was that in more recent centuries the Archangels had taken to carrying short silver blades instead of the heavy flaming longswords.

These silver blades seemed just as potent as the longswords, but not nearly as cumbersome or resulting in as much mess. They were more convenient in today's modern world, and much easier to conceal in a vessel's sleeve, in case one was ambushed by any variation of hellish entity (be it Fallen, demons or even hellhounds). Castiel and Portia held swords of a good size—bigger than the short silver blades, but undoubtedly dwarfed by Uriel's flaming longsword. The subordinates would focus more on keeping the group surrounded by a steady flow of Grace. Hell was draining to an angel's power, and the only safe way one could attempt to penetrate the depths was in a large group. The subordinates, Castiel, Portia and Uriel were all covered in armor down to their toes and over their heads. An advantage of it being _Heavenly_ armor, however, meant that the blessed material was as light as air but as impenetrable as a diamond. Their wings were left unguarded—not from a desire to tempt Fate (as it were, but it was well-known Atropos had no qualms taking someone if it was their time, angel or not), but as a necessary need for flexibility. It would be hard to dodge if every feather were covered in protective armor, after all. So their wings were merely blessed with as much Grace from as many angels as could be found (quite a good amount, given that no angel liked the idea of a brother not returning from Hell due to an inability to fly), as an extra layer of protection.

Castiel was aware that all these layers of blessings would be peeled away the further they went into Hell, but he accepted it. Everyone knew the risks. They were heading into Lucifer's Domain—the very place he had inhabited since the Tenth Day of Creation. It was a place devoid of their Father's Presence, created completely by Lucifer. Anything could happen. But their precautions could protect them, to an extent—could buy them time, and perhaps with that borrowed time, they could manage to complete their mission and escape. But they could just as easily fail as succeed. Everyone knew they could lose faith, down there in the darkness and the unholy filth. Everyone knew and feared being trapped in the Pit. Once there, it was only a matter of time before an angel's Grace—deprived of Heaven and the steadying presence of his brothers—would give out. If an angel's Grace gave out while in the Pit, there would be no return.

Uriel raised his sword, and Castiel refocused on the moment. Beside him, Portia lifted up her own sword and Uriel bellowed out the incantation to open the way to Hell. Behind him, Castiel felt the subordinates tremble briefly before steeling themselves, and felt the angels gathered around them draw back, to allow them a clean shot to Below.

The clouds parted and a tunnel of air—like a hurricane—sucked them downward. Keeping his eyes ahead, Castiel saw the ground fall away against the force of the spell. They were burrowing through bedrock, had traveled millions of miles in mere seconds, before they burst into an open cavern. Screaming humans suspended by criss-crossed chains met their ears, the blasphemy of such a sound excruciating. For a brief moment, Castiel wished he could save them all, but quashed it when he remembered only sinners suffered, here. (Sinners and naïve deal-makers, his mind whispered to him, but he still ignored it.)

Pushing Jimmy's consciousness into a deeper place within him, Castiel and his garrison followed Uriel Down.

~END CHAPTER SIX~


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 7/24

Word Count: 12,862

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Serpent of Eden, Jesse Turner, Jody, Bobby, Dean

Warning(s): Language, threats.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, August 3, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_2 Corinthians 8:03 _

_For they gave according to their means, as I can testify, and beyond their means, of their own accord._

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,010, Christmas-_

For Christmas, Crowley had at last successfully coaxed Aziraphale into leaving the house. Ever since the incident with that pair of hunters, the angel had been overly wary of setting foot out the door, but the quite-angelic guilt of not wishing to intrude on Jesse's last Christmas won over. (To a lesser extent, Crowley's heartfelt laments—_for the past four years_—over the fact they'd not gone out to eat since they'd been in England might've also have some sort of effect.)

Sitting in the left-hand-side passenger seat of the Bentley, the angel started to perk up a bit at the quaint rural scenery he hadn't seen since the spring, and cast a sunny smile to his companion.

"Do you think we'll find a sushi place, my dear?" The demon grunted, eyes on the road (and occasionally flicking left and right, in search of an eatery). He was frowning.

"Maybe. …Er, don't get your hopes up, Zira." Crowley did a search of the town in his head, then scowled. "This town's not really high on the diversity chart." The angel blinked at him, looking troubled.

"Oh? What a shame. Perhaps we should—"

"_No, _angel." Crowley snapped, screeching to a sudden stop at a green light (which instantly turned red, bypassing yellow completely) and turning to glare at him. "The last time you used your powers, it got us tracked down. No angelic interference allowed." Aziraphale peered at him, mouth a straight line, tone strict.

"You needn't be quite so _cheery_ about it, you know." Crowley grinned, shifting into gear. The car pulled forward (and the stoplight changed back to green).

"I'm a demon. Sort of comes with the job description. I think the Germans call it Schadenfreude?"

About an hour later, Crowley's patience had been worn thin. They'd done about six laps around the tiny town, and the only kind of places they'd found were—well, less-than-optimal. (Then again, compared to the Ritz, perhaps Crowley's expectations were set a bit high.)

"Bless it! If I have to eat at some sanctified _deli_, I'm going to pick the _expensive_ one!" Crowley snarled, yanking the steering wheel in a sharp turn and driving diagonally across a four-way intersection (incidentally, the road he was crossing was divided into four lanes) and straight into the parking lot of _Papa's Pizza and Subs_. Fortunately (it being Christmas), there wasn't anyone on the road during the two-point-three seconds it took to accomplish this spectacular traffic violation.

Unfortunately (also because of it being Christmas), the two supernatural entities could see from their seats inside the car that the shop was also _closed_. Crowley took a deep breath, closing his eyes in an effort to remain calm. Aziraphale commenting was an unwelcome surprise, and almost infuriating in how oh-silly-me-of-_course-_I-should've-thought-of-that-before his tone was.

"Well, I suppose that makes sense, really—after all, this _is_ a small, conservative town… Er. Dear?" A tentative hand gently shaking his shoulder drew an annoyed hiss from the demon, but Aziraphale ignored it. Crowley heard the apologetic smile in his voice as the angel softly squeezed his shoulder. "Perhaps we'd best picnic somewhere, then? Have you found any interesting places around?" Crowley took another deep breath (not nearly as angry as before), and thought for a moment. His eyes opened, and he felt part of his annoyance drain away as he gave a very small smirk.

"There's a place about seven minutes north." Crowley glanced out of the side of his sunglasses at Aziraphale. "How do you feel about Stonehenge?" The angel blinked, and peered at him oddly.

"Er. Well. It's a bit far, isn't it? But those lads really did manage quite the effort, even though the legend that came out about the Heelstone is a_ touch_ unseemly—" [1] Crowley interrupted him smoothly, tone blasé as he shifted into reverse.

"Yeah, that was me." Unconcerned with the angel's offended gasp, he paused to shift into drive and pulled out onto the street. He took the first left, sending them north.

"_Crowley! _How could you! The poor man was a cripple for the _rest of his days_!" Crowley reached to the left and grabbed his iPod from its docking station [2]. He thumbed over the doughnut-shaped scroll pad, seeking some proper music by casting a few brief glances from the road to the screen.

"Hey, that friar was asking for it." He pressed the button to select some nice, relaxing piano music. Crowley winced at what the Bentley blasted out of the speakers, instead. [3]

_"I been singin' with my band, 'cross the wire, 'cross the land, and I've seen every blue-eyed floozy on the way—"_

Aziraphale didn't bat an eye or otherwise visibly react (years upon years of being subjected to such _bebop_ had somewhat desensitized him to the raunchy range of Queen's lyrics), but the volume _did_ go down rather drastically.

Crowley just kept driving.

[1] Yet another instance of Crowley not being given his due credit. The folktale about the origin of the Heelstone (which lies outside the main circle of Stonehenge) Aziraphale is referring to goes as follows (again, included here for your enjoyment).

The Devil bought the stones from a woman in Ireland, wrapped them up, and brought them to Salisbury plain. One of the stones fell into the Avon, the rest were carried to the plain. The Devil then cried out, "No-one will ever find out how these stones came here!" A friar replied, "That's what you think!," whereupon the Devil threw one of the stones at him and struck him on the heel. The stone stuck in the ground and is still there.

[2] A natural evolution after the cassette player became obsolete.

[3] His computer was back in England, so that meant the iPod [4] had been in the Bentley for _four_ _straight years_ with no re-syncing to bring back his Classical favorites. Still, hope springs eternal.

[4] Which was, incidentally, now a sleek black fourth generation iPod Touch.

_-Anno Domini 2,010, Christmas, A Few Minutes Later-_

They'd been on Highway 87 for a few minutes now, Queen playing quietly in the background. Aziraphale was peering serenely out the window at the vast landscape, which had quickly grown into short (one or maybe two stories, at most), sprawling homes and then farmsteads and fields as they drove further from the more civilized parts of town.

"Isn't it lovely, dear? Look at that—prairie, as far as I can see. And the _sky_. It just about goes on forever, doesn't it?" He sighed happily, and Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"It's just _land_, Zira. Tornados come out here, y'know?" He grinned a bit at the thought. "Nothing like that in England." Aziraphale hmphed.

"Well, home is _much_ cloudier, of course." The angel's voice grew distant, almost wistful. "The sun's so hot, here. What with the End coming next year, I wish we could've spent these past few years at home." Crowley shifted uncomfortably.

"You know how it is, ange." He squinted behind his sunglasses at the road that went on, straight into the horizon. "We've got a job to do." Although he missed England, too. All of America was too bright and big—too harsh and wide open. England was small and orderly, and Crowley'd grown tired of the gun-toting, Bible-thumping yokels all around him after the first week. Still—if they could stop the End, they could head back home afterwards. (Damned antichrists, popping up everywhere.) His voice grew firmer.

"When it's all over, we'll go back. Maybe when this one fails, too, they'll give up?" Aziraphale glanced at him, blinking softly, but then, without warning, Crowley made a sharp right turn. The angel squeaked, clinging to his left-hand-passenger's-side door [5] as the Bentley surged into the parking lot, back wheels spinning as it suddenly stopped, spraying dust everywhere in quite the dramatic entrance. (It was truly a shame there was no one around to see it.)

"_Crowley." _The demon turned to grin rakishly at the fuming angel, ignoring Aziraphale's heart-stopping glower and instead propping his elbow over the steering wheel.

"C'mon, Zira. We're here." Crowley nodded behind him, to his right, and Aziraphale's wary eyes strayed, spying a few stubby trees. But then the demon got out and so the angel sighed to himself, unclenching his hands from where they'd curled over the window and following. Crowley had his hands in his pockets, waiting for him around the front of the car and Aziraphale gave him a sour look, to which the demon just smirked, turning as they began walking towards whatever-it-was they'd driven to.

"Oh, don't be like that. It's Christmas!" Crowley's left arm suddenly went around his shoulders, his right hand flying out to emphasize the wonderousness of that statement. Aziraphale looked at him dryly.

"You _despise _Christmas, dearest." The demon rolled his eyes, continuing to drag his moderately-willing hostage along.

"On _principle_. You keep forgetting that the whole frenzied-shopping thing was my idea." His grin turned sharp as Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "But _you—_you _like_ all that 'brotherly love' and 'peace towards Man' nonsense, don't you? We might as well celebrate." Crowley nodded to himself in sage affirmation, staring straight ahead again as they walked. The angel felt himself mellow, a smile sneaking out over his face. He wrapped his right arm around Crowley's hip and hummed to himself as the demon jumped, his hand on Aziraphale's left shoulder tightening briefly. He didn't let go, only patted Crowley's right side warmly in reassurance.

"I suppose you're right. Now then, where have you taken us?" Crowley huffed a chuckle, and as they passed the last small stretch of trees Aziraphale's eyes widened.

"Welcome to Carhenge, angel."

Truly, humans came up with the _oddest_ things.

Crowley immediately swept himself up (with a beat or two from his wings) onto the American grey-spray-painted pick-up truck perched atop two other cars (which were buried nose-first into the ground). Aziraphale chided Crowley to _get down_, at first, terrified the cars would topple. But the demon landed lightly and easily on the roof of the cab, grinning as the truck didn't even shake. He preened, remarking that the view was great and that the cars could easily handle the weight of another unladen swallow [6], if Aziraphale wished to join him for lunch. Aziraphale glared at him and Crowley shrugged, dropping to a seat in the truckbed and loudly proclaiming all that he was miracling into existence to eat. [7]

After about a minute, Aziraphale quietly inquired as to whether there was soy sauce, wasabi and ginger, and Crowley answered loftily that he'd best come up and see for himself. The angel pouted, but still altered his weight [8] and ascended into the truckbed, where they spent the rest of the afternoon. Once the meal was finished (and the wine they'd used to polish it off gone), Crowley stretched out on the hot metal, ready for a nap. Aziraphale didn't really let himself feel the hot sun, and so was reasonably comfortable, staring up at the sky which stretched out and open over the fields all around them. It was peaceful—a strange feeling, as ever since they'd come to the States, they'd been bustling about to keep Jesse safe and on the right track (as well as generally secret from Above and Below).

They returned to Jesse's home after dark, quite happy with their little day out and only a bit melancholic that this might be the world's last Christmas. They rang in the new year in the Turner's TV room, sitting on the couch with Jesse between them as they watched the Ball drop in New York at around ten o'clock at night. Aziraphale shooed the boy off to bed, afterwards, and—with Jesse's parents gone for at least another three hours (if they attemped to drive home that night, at all)—got magnificently drunk. [9]

[5] The Bentley (being produced in 1926) had no seatbelts, after all.

[6] Crowley graciously left the decision of whether to make himself the weight of an African or European swallow up to Aziraphale.

[7] Mostly sushi, funnily enough.

[8] To that of a European swallow, of course.

[9] Later, they would deny any pathetic blubbering into the coffee table about the End of the World and mutually agree to _forget _that wretchedly inelegant incident with the mistletoe.

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May 21-_

The day began much like any other, and they had been side-by-side for most of it. They both wished they could've seen London, one last time—wished that the preceding week could have been full of last-minute British-themed frivolities [10]. They would've liked to lunch at the Ritz on this Day of Doom, and then perhaps wander over to St. James Park armed with a bag of breadcrumbs.

But now—as the sun began to set over not London, England, but Alliance, Nebraska—the two invisible Agents sat on the roof of Jesse Turner's house (poised to defend the boy, should anything come to claim or destroy him or his parents), staring up at the sky. Crowley's long, tapered fingers twitched, and he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the angel beside him. Predictably, the dying rays of the sun highlighted Aziraphale's blond waves such that there seemed to be a halo of undulating light around his head. Crowley pushed his sunglasses further up his nose, looked away, and threw out an awkward hand, aiming for the angel's. A beat of silence met that, followed by a quiet chuckle. Crowley flexed his fingers, and felt his fingertips sink into fabric that was fleshy and solid. His face burned as he realized his blind jab had missed, but it cooled a little as he felt Aziraphale pat the top of his hand, reassuringly.

"It'll be all right, you'll see." The angel stated, firmly, and Crowley glanced back at him. But Aziraphale was still watching the sky, blue-grey eyes firmly fixed on the Heavens. A moment passed, and Crowley was about to say something, but suddenly Aziraphale jerked, his eyes going wide as he lost his balance. Despite feeling a tingle in the back of his brain, Crowley leaped into action, scrambling to keep him from falling off the roof. He grabbed the angel's thigh (where his hand had landed, previously), hooked his elbow around Aziraphale's arm and heaved him back up. (It took a good amount of effort, considering how much the angel had taken to enjoying his Jaffa Cakes over the centuries.)

"Angel! Hey, Zira! What _was_ that, are you—" But Aziraphale was still staring, gaze blank, up at the sky. Crowley felt a pulse of dread, which relaxed only slightly when the angel's eyes slowly moved to his, still seeming shell-shocked but slowly filling with wonder. It was a strange combination, one Crowley didn't like at all. He frowned, placing his hand on Aziraphale's head and miracling them into the living room, below.

Crowley landed and managed to remain upright, despite initially stumbling a bit from the weight of his friend. He dragged the angel over and shouldered him onto the old beige-brown-and-yellow-floral-patterned couch. For the heck of it (and as it seemed appropriate), Crowley tugged the Indian blanket draped across the top over Aziraphale. The demon then turned, and sat on the thin carpet in front of the couch. He leaned back against the couch, wincing a little at the barely-cushioned hard wood against his bum. After a few minutes of staring into the unlit fireplace, a shaky hand slowly reached for him out of his peripheral vision and Crowley took it without otherwise moving. The silence continued as he waited patiently for an explanation while Aziraphale gathered himself. Then, in a whisper so hushed it was almost inaudible—

"Didn't you feel it?" Crowley frowned, and turned to look at his friend. Aziraphale's eyes seemed tired but focused, his wavy hair limp over his forehead. The angel's head was leaned on the couch's armrest, resting on a pillow that certainly hadn't been there before.

"Feel what?" To be honest, Crowley _had_ felt a little queasy, but it was probably the fish sticks they'd had for dinner. (That, or the consecrated angel _almost falling off the roof_.) Aziraphale sent a weary smile towards him, hand squeezing his.

"The Descent. An Archangel has Descended to Earth. One of the Original Seven." Crowley's insides froze, and his fingers tightened of their own accord. Aziraphale lifted his held hand, eyes falling shut as he touched the tip of his nose to the demon's knuckles, speaking softly in comfort. "It's all right, Crowley, my dear. We're all right. There won't be an apocalypse, today." The demon choked.

"B-But why? How do you know?" Aziraphale's exhale slightly brushed his dark hair, but Crowley only vaguely felt it.

"It sets too many things into disarray, puts too much into question. An Archangel Descending is a loss Heaven would not be prepared for." Aziraphale paused, then shook his head. "One of their _Commanders_ has gone missing, you know." Crowley huffed, trying to remember to breathe. (Even if it wasn't necessary, it _was_ rhythmic and soothing, and boy did he need that, now.)

"But how could you tell? I barely felt anything." Aziraphale smiled over the demon's knuckles at him. Crowley could've sworn the angel's lips brushed the back of his hand as he spoke. (They were still curled up, at the corners.)

"My _dear_ demon, I have been on this planet for just as long as you, and you think in all that time I haven't learned to sense when my brothers pay a visit?" Crowley shook his head, chuckling quietly (and a little hysterically) as he squeezed the angel's hand, just to feel something solid.

"Sanctified angel. Satan bless it, you're just full of surprises, aren't you?" Aziraphale didn't respond, but Crowley felt the featherlight strokes of the angel's fingers smoothing over the top of his head and relaxed, just a notch.

[10] Such as excursions through all the tourist traps in London (Aziraphale's wishful thinking) and a stealthy break-in to the Tower or, perhaps, even Buckingham Palace (Crowley's, naturally).

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May 22-_

Fretting to himself, Aziraphale puttered about in the kitchen, unable to keep still. Crowley, by contrast, was reclined back in a chair (its two front legs off the ground), an index finger tapping the tabletop, gaze abstracted. It was very obvious Crowley wasn't hearing a word from the nervous angel.

"I mean, really, it's not like it hasn't happened before, but—oh, well, do you believe they've simply _cancelled _it, after all, because by now there have been three separate occasions and—"

"No one showed up here." Crowley muttered to himself, accidentally interrupting the babbling he hadn't been listening to. Aziraphale blinked—his train of thought interrupted—and out of politeness tried to respond.

"Oh… Yes, there is that, but—" The demon waved a hand, distractedly, and a steaming cup of tea miracled itself into existence across the table from him. Aziraphale honed in on it, but didn't sit down, opting instead to only pick it up and take a worried sip. Crowley's serpentine eyes slid up over his sunglasses to lock on the angel, still narrowed, but now a bit more focused on the here and now.

"Maybe that's not what they were going for, this time?" Crowley frowned, peering down at his hand, fingers now drumming anxiously over the wood. "Maybe they don't think they need an antichrist, anymore…" Aziraphale sighed, sounding a good bit less flustered after having taken a few calming sips.

"I'm afraid I don't know, my dear." Crowley sighed, letting his chair fall forward onto its two front legs, again, and pushed himself to a stand.

"Well, if that's it, then I'm heading back to England." Aziraphale blinked at him, then cast a troubled glance back towards the living room, thinking of the family in there, playing a board game. [11]

"But what about Jesse? We can't just _leave_ the dear lad, what if—"

"If Hell or Heaven come for him _now, _it's not our fault." Crowley snapped, irritated. "We've _done_ our job—been watching out for him for the past four years, and the kid knows how to handle himself. He can always ask Adam, anyway." Aziraphale strode over to him, resting a placating hand on Crowley's arm, voice earnest.

"But _Crowley_, he's only thirteen, still just a boy—" The demon grabbed the angel's arm off him and held it, glaring right into Aziraphale's face.

"Adam was _eleven_ when he saved the world, if you've forgotten, and I'm _tired_ of these bloody Yanks and their sodding _customary units_ and the fact that everyone's so backwards here they don't even know they're being _insulted_ and the crime rates are great, but really there isn't much for me to do and Brits are at least a _challenge, _at least they're _conflicted_ over making the wrong decision but here in the States no one seems to care about how you get to the top so long as you stay there and—" [12]

Aziraphale put a hand over the poor ranting demon's mouth. He smiled.

"Dearest, if you're just as homesick as I am, you could have just _said_ so." Crowley shoved his hand away, grumbling.

"'m not _home_sick_._ _Home_ is… full of fire and sharp pointy things." The demon shuddered, and plunged his hands into his pockets, stalking off towards the front door. Aziraphale shook his head with a bit of fondly exasperated good humor, but still called after him.

"Don't leave without me, please!" The sounds of the door opening and shutting echoed, but he didn't hear the Bentley screeching away from the curb, and so assumed he'd been heeded. Aziraphale briskly strode into the living room, drawing a complicated sigil. Jesse's parents froze as it faded. Jesse looked up when they didn't respond to something he said, but before he could fix them the angel spoke.

"Jesse." He turned around, blinking up at him.

"Aziraphale? Why'd you freeze them? We were in the middle of—" Aziraphale walked to Jesse as the boy rose from his chair, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The angel smiled down at him.

"I know. I'll return them to normal soon. But Jesse, dear—Crowley and I must leave." He said it as gently as he could, but Jesse's brow still furrowed.

"Why? Aren't you having fun here? Did I do something bad?" Aziraphale smiled sweetly down at him, lifting a hand to tuck the boy's fringe behind his ear.

"No, no, of course not, please don't think that. It's just—" He hesitated.

"Just what?" Aziraphale took a slow breath, briefly shutting his eyes and trying to clear his thoughts.

"Jesse." His eyes opened, serious and firm, and he placed his other hand on Jesse's other shoulder. "Crowley and I can't always be with you, do you understand? These past four years were to help prepare you for the apocalypse, protect you if something came for you, but—"

"But it didn't happen, so you're leaving." Jesse sounded hurt, and Aziraphale sighed sadly, leaning down to give him a hug. Jesse's arms wrapped tightly around his midsection, as far as they could reach. The angel murmured against the boy's hair, pressing his cheek to the top of his head and squeezing him close, tone soothing.

"I'm sorry, my dear. But I've told you since the beginning that we wouldn't be here forever, haven't I?" Jesse mumbled something, nodding against the angel's sweatervest, and Aziraphale smiled, rubbing his palm over the boy's back, comfortingly. "There, there. If you have questions, you can always call Adam, isn't that right?" The angel drew back a bit, smiling down at the face of the second antichrist he's had the pleasure to know. He smoothed Jesse's fringe out of his eyes, again. "So no tears, dear lad. I know you'll be just fine, but I expect to hear from you, all right?" A piece of paper manifested itself into Aziraphale's palm, and he withdrew one hand from around Jesse to offer it to him.

"Crowley's and my mobile numbers are on this, as well as the number and address of my bookshop in England, and Adam's number and address. All right? If you need anything, don't hesitate to call." The angel laughed, then, recalling something. "You could even drop by, if you'd like." He beamed down at Jesse, expression sweet. "Just don't visit for too long, your parents might worry." Jesse sniffled a chuckle at him, and Aziraphale gave him one more lingering hug, whispering against his hair.

"You'll be fine, my dear. You don't need Crowley and I around to ensure that."

The angel let the boy cling for a few more minutes, then stepped away, made himself invisible again and re-started time. Jesse remained standing, staring after him (he could likely still see Aziraphale even if his parents couldn't, as angelic and demonic powers didn't work on an antichrist, after all). The angel paused at the door, glancing back with his hand on the knob and giving Jesse one last reassuring smile, before exiting. Aziraphale headed down the sidewalk to the curb, and the Bentley's engine started. He opened the passenger-side door and climbed in, exhaling deeply as Crowley pulled into the street. After a few minutes of driving, he spoke.

"Crowley?" A grunt. Aziraphale clasped his hands together in his lap, steeling himself. "Crowley, my dear, it's just that…" He took a deep breath, and spilled out the rest before the demon could stop him. "There's a friend of mine who lives around here, and before we head home I'd like to perhaps—" The car screeched to a stop at a suddenly-red light and the demon turned his head to glare at him.

"We've been living here for almost _four years_—not to mention the trips you used to make, tracking down other angels—and _now_ you bloody want to _visit_ somebody?" Crowley demanded, but Aziraphale only smiled pleasantly back at him.

"If it's not too much trouble, dearest." Crowley gave him the Evil Eye for a full two minutes [15], at that, but Aziraphale did not give an inch, keeping his smile firmly agreeable (if a tad stubborn). Finally, the conversation edged forward from its standstill [16].

"_Why." _That one word was filled with all the restrained frustration a demon could muster, and Aziraphale took full advantage of said restraint. He beamed, and Crowley winced a little [17].

"He's got quite a good number of rare books on the occult as well as the ethereal, Crowley, and over the years I've managed to send a few his way that he was having trouble finding copies of, this side of the Pond." Aziraphale had started gushing without quite meaning to, his Grace sparkling [18] a shade stronger due to enthusiasm and now Crowley _flinched_, leaning back towards the window on the right-hand-driver's-side of the Bentley.

"Angel—"

"And, really, I should've tried to visit him before this but you know how _busy_ we've been with dear Jesse, and after those two boys tracked us down—"

"Tracked _you_ down, you mean."

"Yes, well, it's the general picture, Crowley, and what was I saying—Oh, yes, and he only lives a bit to the north and east, so _really_ it's not too terribly far and if we're _already _planning to head towards the Pond to get back home, old boy, we _might _as _well_—"

_"All __**right!**_" The demon bellowed, not able to take much more of Aziraphale's blathering on as his Grace buoyed up more and more with his excited rationalization. The angel blinked at him, and his Grace dimmed abruptly back to a tolerable level. Crowley glared at him. Aziraphale blinked again (as though not quite believing what he was seeing). He eventually offered the demon a slightly sheepish smile.

"Oh, I… your sunglasses. Did I do that?" The plastic lenses had partially melted (what with all the demonic energy they'd soaked up, being on Crowley's face all the time) and were now half their original size. This lack of concealment made Crowley's vexed yellow vertically-slit eyes all the more prominent.

_"Yesss." _He hissed without pretense, neck stiff as he remained in a driving position, but still glaring at the sanctified angel. Aziraphale gave an embarrassed chuckle, and looked away, waving his hand. The sunglasses fixed themselves, the light turned green, and they drove on. Crowley noticed the angel nervously plucking at his own fingers in the seat beside him, and frowned to himself. He quietly headed north and east, but after about an hour of self-imposed uncomfortable silence (the angel had to _learn, _otherwise he might do it again, after all) Crowley had to ask.

"So where's this friend of yours. Can't go if we don't know where." Aziraphale immediately perked up beside him, the tension slipping away as if it had never been. He hastily recited an address that Crowley figured the angel'd accidentally memorized after sending those books out [19], and the demon adjusted his course accordingly.

One little stop couldn't be that much trouble, could it?

[11] Naturally (the apocalypse fortunately being on a Saturday—_why_ did the world always want to end on a Saturday [13]?), they'd made sure both of Jesse's parents had planned to stay home the entire weekend, influencing them gently to decide to spend a lot of quality time together. (It also made them easier to protect, if everyone was in one place.) Their discussion went unheard by the trio in the room just next door, as Aziraphale and Crowley were old hats at both muting their conversations _and _appearing invisible to mortals.

[12] May it be noted that the author is a full-blooded, born-and-raised American, and so is at _liberty_ (oh, look, a pun) to make fun of the USA. [ These claims by Crowley are, of course, grossly exaggerated (or _are_ they?) and one must recall that he is clearly biased towards the UK, seeming to have spent much of the last century there in addition to having an actual _apartment_ in Mayfair. ]

[13] January 1, 2000, had been a Saturday, as had the 1990 Nopocalypse. [14]

[14] We might as well use Aziraphale's term for it, don't you think?

[15] During which the light changed (because Crowley was too distracted to keep it red). When people started honking behind them, however, Crowley's eyes narrowed (a fraction further than they already were) and suddenly all was ominously silent.

[16] Also known colloquially as a 'battle of wills'.

[17] Mostly at the tinge of Grace Aziraphale may or may not have intended to leak into his appropriately 'angelic' beam.

[18] If any angel's Grace has the inherent right to twinkle or sparkle (or otherwise be described in any way that even vaguely reminds one of fairies), it is Aziraphale's.

[19] Aziraphale was as absent-minded as they came, but he could recite a passage from a book after one reading. (After two readings, he tended to memorize it.)

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May 23-_

"Hello, Tom? This is Azar Afel—er, that is, the proprietor of _Biblical Blessings_ in London? I believe I sent you a few rare books a while back, and… Well, wouldn't you know it, I actually made it to this side of the Pond! An old friend and I will be in town tomorrow, so—if it's not too much of a bother—I'd like to stop by for a cup of tea and a chat? Er, I—_Crowley, what's this mobile's number again? …Oh, really? Well isn't that convenient—_Well, dear, Crowley has just informed me that you'll have the right number to call me back since you've _missed_ this call, and while that doesn't quite make sense to me he hasn't steered me wrong, yet! Hope to hear back from you, old boy."

"Hey, Azzy. Thanks for the heads-up. Real nice to hear you're in our neck o' the woods. Those books on djinn and angelic incantations against demons were just what I was lookin' for. Real quality, detailed stuff, and I appreciate it. You'd be welcome to stop by tomorrow, but the afternoon'd be better, 'cause the missus'll be back from the store by then. Lookin' forward to seein' ya, just come up to the door and knock if nobody's outside when you pull up. Bye."

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May 24-_

Crowley stopped just before the home-soldered sign spread above the entrance to the salvage yard. He leaned forward, scanning the piles of broken-down cars with mounting (and thinly-veiled) distrust. Aziraphale blinked at him, not understanding why they'd stopped. After a moment, the demon looked at him, frowning.

"What kind of guy is this? And I thought you said his name was Willis." Crowley eyed the sign, which suspiciously read 'Singer Salvage Yard' (as opposed to anything Willis-related). Aziraphale turned to look into the yard, as well, brow furrowing.

"I believe he said he inherited it from his mother's side? It's entirely plausible, you know. Female mechanics are not as rare as one might think, and Tom told me his mother was a real pioneer for her gender, keeping this place up and running in a male-dominated society. Quite inspiring, really." Crowley leaned further over the wheel (chin almost resting on it, by now), squinting at the mis-matched stacks of half-gutted cars.

"Not sure I trust the Bentley here." Crowley's teeth worried his lower lip, fingers agitatedly tapping on the steering wheel. The demon cast a furtive sidelong glance at the angel. "He's not going to hoist it up and strip it for parts, is he?" Aziraphale puffed up with indignation (apparently offended on Willis' behalf), glaring at the demon, tone admonishing.

"Crowley! Simply because the man runs a pick-and-pull doesn't mean he's _unscrupulous_!" Crowley slouched forward (the wheel now pressing into his neck) and glowered through his sunglasses. After a moment the Bentley began to crawl forward, and the demon muttered under his breath.

"I've got a bad feeling about this place." Aziraphale sniffed at him, sitting back in his seat and letting his eyes sweep over the tops of the stacks, trying to spot the house. He perked up, suddenly, lifting a hand to gesture.

"I believe it's over that way, dearest." Crowley adjusted accordingly, peering at the angel out of the corner of his eye as Aziraphale smiled at him. "And you needn't be so terribly paranoid. Americans may be odd, but they're certainly charming." The angel paused as he caught sight of the house decorated with hubcaps. The demon smirked as Aziraphale amended his statement. "In their own way, of course."

"Sure. Why don't you call me when you book nerds are done?" Crowley's tone was sarcastic as he pulled in next to an old beat-up truck, and Aziraphale turned to stare at him.

"I'm sorry?" The demon looked at him pointedly, voice flat.

"If you think I'm leaving the Bentley unattended for one _minute_ in this place, you're out of your mind." The angel's brows drew together as he frowned, and he cast an uncertain second look at the hubcap-bedecked house.

"Crowley, I'm certain they wouldn't—"

"Hey!" Both of their heads turned at the sound of a female voice. The source was a brunette, who seemed about fifty but in good health, her steps assured as she came out of the house. Her face was bright and welcoming as she gave them a wave. Caught, Aziraphale quickly sent her a brilliant smile, returning her wave and climbing out. Crowley sighed, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose and following suit (minus the smile and wave, of course). Aziraphale immediately bustled over to her, shaking her hand in both of his own. Crowley slowly sidled after, stopping beside the effusive angel.

"You must be Mrs. Willis! I'm truly delighted to meet you, my dear." She laughed, patting Aziraphale's hands with her free one. Mrs. Willis' eyes crinkled with warmth, seeming to sense the genuine feel-good aura Aziraphale tended to project and relaxing accordingly. (Sacred angel.)

"Well, hello! You must be Mr. Afel? It's a pleasure. And…" Mrs. Willis' eyes drew to the side, falling on the demon. Crowley sent her a sly smirk, and her eyes narrowed. Aziraphale cleared his throat, sending a mild glare back to him. Crowley chuckled, moving forward to offer her his hand.

"Hello, miss." He said very nicely, and the angel just blinked at him. "Name's Anthony Crowley. Nice to meet you." Mrs. Willis gave him a smile as she moved to shake his hand, but the expression was a bit sharp. (Almost like she could _feel _that he was a troublemaker.)

"Likewise, Mr. Crowley." Instead of shaking it, though, the demon lifted the back of her hand to his mouth for a kiss, slyly leering at her, voice pitch-perfect and charming.

"You can call me Tony, if you like?" Mrs. Willis pursed her lips, not-quite glaring, but close. Aziraphale saved her from an impolite reaction with a hissed stage whisper that was, unfortunately, not at all discreet.

"_Really_, old boy! She'll think you fancy her!" Crowley felt his leer become a bit strained as Mrs. Willis smirked at him. She withdrew her hand and he straightened, collecting his dignity and casting a dark look at Aziraphale.

"_Thanks." _The angel smiled warmly back at him.

"Your ears are the most fetching shade of red, my dear." Crowley heard a snort from Mrs. Willis' direction and coughed, hiking his sunglasses further up his face and coolly trying to hide one of said ears behind his hand.

"Weren't we here to visit your friend?" His eyes darted back to Mrs. Willis. She was watching them with an amused smile, hands on her hips, and grinned as she caught his look.

"He's out, but should be back soon. Want the grand tour?" Aziraphale beamed at her.

"Of course, Mrs. Willis! How kind of you to offer!" She smiled at him.

"Just Jody is fine." Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, moving to lean back against the Bentley as the pair walked towards the house. At the bottom of the steps Aziraphale noticed he wasn't following and paused, casting a confused glance behind him.

"Crowley? Aren't you coming?" The demon smiled at him, waving a hand for effect as Mrs. Willis—Jody—turned at the door, her eyebrows raised.

"I think I'll stay here and enjoy the fresh air. You go ahead." Brows knit in confusion, Aziraphale sent him a puzzled smile, and Crowley patted the Bentley's slick paint job. The angel frowned, and sighed, turning to speak to Jody.

"Please excuse him, won't you? He's a bit protective of that car." Jody laughed, and smirked at Crowley from her spot in front of the door.

"Don't worry, I know what_ that's_ like. Someone I know calls his 'baby'. Got any nicknames for that clunker, Romeo?" Crowley frowned, and she grinned. Aziraphale blinked at her.

"His… baby? But how did—Oh _my_." Aziraphale seemed truly at a loss for words. Crowley tried not to snort at the angel's disturbed expression (nor at the thoughts that had likely produced it) [20]. Jody took pity upon seeing Aziraphale's look of shock, smiling as she explained.

"Not his _real _baby, of course, but he treats his car like a girlfriend. Always keeping her in great condition, lots of attention, lots of time." She snorted. "He does everything but _sleep _with that thing." Aziraphale sighed again (now that he was back in the loop, so to speak), tone commiserating.

"I know precisely what you mean, dear lady." Crowley scowled at him.

"Hey!" The angel glanced back at Crowley, raising his brows and silently challenging him to deny it. The demon pursed his lips, and settled for pointing decisively at him. "Don't compare me to some kid with a gas-guzzler. The Bentley's more than just classic—it's got _attitude._" He ran his palm lovingly over the front hood of the car, eyes drawn to its jet-black sheen. Off to the side, Jody huffed, shaking her head.

"Men." Aziraphale blinked at her, and she paused, amending. "_Most_ men." She opened the door, glancing back at the angel. "Coffee, or tea?" He smiled at her, stepping up to the threshold.

"Tea, if you don't mind." Aziraphale didn't glance back, and Crowley sighed in resignation as the door shut behind the angel. He stared up at the sky, squinting, and settled in for a long wait.

_Why don't I just leave him behind, again?_

[20] For clarification, this valiant attempt was a complete failure.

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May 24-_

Mr. Afel followed her inside, and Jody found herself smiling as he exclaimed.

"Oh, my _word! _Look at all these! _Oh_, there's even—" She glanced behind her, noting with amusement that Mr. Afel's hands were clasped just under his chin, his eyes shining as they greedily gobbled up the sight of the many bookcases which lined the walls. (Just like a kid in a candy store.)

"Feel free to look around." Mr. Afel cast her an incredulous glance, composing himself and clearing his throat, a restraining hand splayed over his chest.

"Oh, I couldn't _possibly_—they're _Tom's_, after all." She waved a hand, turning back to the stove and setting a kettle to boil.

"I don't think he'd mind. 'sides, how often do you get out here?" She heard a rueful, wistful tone, and the sound of fingers dusting gently over aged spines as he walked along the wall, presumably perusing Bobby's stock.

"Not often…" Jody shook her head, and moved to grab a plate of chocolate-chip cookies off the counter. She peeled the celophane off (they were a few days old) and set them on the kitchen table. Jody looked up, smiling to herself as Mr. Afel absently wandered out into the living room, following the trail of bookcases like a bloodhound. Thumbs hooking into the front pockets of her jeans, she followed. After a moment of quiet observation, she noticed that he was completely enraptured—almost reverent—in his appraisal of the full shelves.

"You really like books, huh?" The British man beamed back at her, fingers still spread over the spines of a few dust-covered tomes.

"It's a hobby of mine. But these have been kept in _excellent_ condition, I must say." His gaze turned back to the shelves and Jody scoffed, walking up next to him and peering up at the towering mass of literature.

"Well, you're _welcome_. Tom—" She didn't stumble over Bobby's fake name, voice perfectly smooth and natural. "—had them in stacks _everywhere_, when I first moved in." Mr. Afel stared at her, clearly scandalized at the notion. She grinned. "Had to strong-arm him into changing his system so we wouldn't always be tripping over them." She glanced up again at the shelves, smiling a little softer, in memory. "The boys helped put them together. For a birthday present."

"You have sons?" Jody glanced away from Mr. Afel's polite inquiry, and pushed away the thought of Owen. She managed a smile.

"Two." Mr. Afel's face grew concerned, and he stepped over to her, a hand gently touching her shoulder.

"Oh no, my dear… It was three, wasn't it?" Jody bit her lip, crossing her arms over her front and turning away.

"From my—" She cleared her throat. "Owen was from my first marriage. He died when he was six, with his father in a car accident." Mr. Afel was silent, but after a moment his hand slid down her arm, squeezing soothingly.

"I'm so sorry, Jody." She felt her chin start to quiver at the warm touch, but sighed and managed to stem the tide of emotion, closing her eyes.

"It was a long time ago. Sam and Dean are my boys, now." Jody turned to smile at him, and Mr. Afel returned it, voice gentle.

"Tom's sons?" She felt her lips quirk up at the corners.

"Adopted sons." She corrected. "His first wife, Karen, died in a hunting accident." Mr. Afel's brows knit together, and he seemed to frown in sadness at her.

"I'm very sorry to hear that. I didn't know." Jody felt a little lighter after admitting this, but then blinked, realizing. She laughed and shook her head, putting a hand to her forehead.

"Oh, I'm—I'm sorry! You didn't come all this way to hear about our tragedies." Mr. Afel chuckled, lifting his hand from her arm and patting her cheek, genuinely caring.

"Don't be ridiculous, miss. It's quite all right. But is that the kettle I hear?" He tipped his head and she blinked, realizing he was right.

"Is it? That was fast." Jody shook her head, brushing it off and walked back into the kitchen. Mr. Afel followed her, and she called distractedly behind her. "Feel free to have a seat—er, I didn't get your first name?" She heard another chuckle.

"It is Azar. But in his message, I believe Tom called me… Oh, what was it?" He sounded perplexed and Jody grinned as she remembered, pouring hot water into a mug for Mr. Afel's tea.

"Azzy, right?" She snagged her own coffee and returned to the kitchen table. Mr. Afel laughed.

"Yes, that was it! Oh, I can't figure how he came up with it." Jody shook her head, sitting, and Mr. Afel politely took his seat, as well. She handed over his tea, then held her own mug between her hands, gazing at him. She grinned.

"It suits you." Mr. Afel—_Azzy_—gave her a doubtful look. She chuckled at his prim tone (half just to be joking, she was sure).

"With all _due_ respect, miss, I must voice my disagreement." Jody grinned at him for another moment, then noticed something, blinking. She made to get up, then.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want milk or sugar? I can—" But the British man only took a delicate sip from his own mug, his eyes smiling at her over the rim.

"It's perfectly fine, but thank you." She noticed his eyes drop towards the plate of cookies, and pushed them toward him.

"Please, help yourself." He smiled at her, immediately taking one.

"Thank you. They _do_ look delicious."

"Thanks. They're an American classic." She winked at him and he grinned, lifting the cookie in the air with a grand gesture, voice solemn as he tipped his head to it, as though to a queen.

"Then I shall give it the respect it deserves!" Jody snickered and Azzy took a bite, humming pleasantly to himself. She leaned over the table, elbows supporting her coffee mug before her.

"So how long have you and Mr. Crowley been together?" He blinked at her, a few crumbs at the side of his mouth. "It's just, you seem pretty close." She smiled as she said this, indicating the crumbs with a finger to the corner of her own mouth. He swept them away with a bashful smile and set his mug aside, staring at it as his fingers drummed against the ceramic.

"Quite a while." His expression softened, then, something secret and sweet behind it. "You might say most of our lives." Jody grinned at him.

"That's great." He looked up to her, expression warming.

"It is. He's one of a very few people I can call a friend." Jody blinked at him, puzzled, tone skeptical.

"Really? You seem the type that would make friends easily." Azzy smiled at her, but now it was a bit self-depreciating.

"No, I'm afraid not. I enjoy keeping to my books too much to go out." Jody grinned at him.

"But Crowley's an exception?" His smile quirked a bit in humor, and he nodded, conceding.

"He's an exception." Jody hummed, musing aloud.

"It's interesting. To look at you, I'd think you two wouldn't get along, but…" Azzy coughed into his hand, and Jody swore she saw his cheeks pink. (Was that embarrassment?)

"I—Er, well. We didn't, at first." He peered at her, expression rather helplessly amused. "We spent our childhood together, but came from—quite different families. Later on, we came to be in—ah, I suppose you would say the same general _company_, but with quite opposite views on… public relations?" He added this doubtfully, peering at her for confirmation and Jody smiled, nodding. He went on, emboldened.

"Yes, well. After quite a long time fighting with each other—and consistently getting under each other's feet, as it were—one day we realized we had a rather staggering amount of interests in common." Azzy smiled at her, and now it was warm and brilliant, like the first edge of a sunrise. "I suppose the short of it is, we reconnected and started working _together_ instead of apart, and things have been going relatively smoothly ever since." He took a sip of his tea and Jody regarded him thoughtfully. (She would never admit it, but his tale had her feeling sort of fuzzy inside.)

"That's a great story." Azzy's eyes smiled at her, again, from over his mug. She continued. "I mean, most people meet their life partners when they're adults, and usually get along right from the beginning, but…" She smiled at him, unable to help it. "You guys are really inspiring." At this, Azzy finally demurred, his face glowing as he averted his eyes, but he was obviously flattered with the praise.

"Oh, no, my dear—really, we're just a pair of oddities." Jody laughed, nodding in agreement.

"You got that right! When you guys drove up in that—when was it made, 1930?" Azzy set his mug down, smiling at her as he quietly took another cookie.

"1926, I believe." Jody nodded emphatically, still grinning.

"Yeah! I was thinking—'Oh, this can't be who Tom meant was coming' because he made you sound a bit stuffy and out-of-touch… No offense." She offered, but Azzy waved her concern away.

"Not at all, dear lady. Do continue?" She smiled, feeling unnaturally at ease with him.

"Sure. Anyway, he gave the impression that you were a bit…" She tipped her head, tapping the table with her finger, hesitant, and Azzy regarded her with a patient, amused smile.

"A bit—?"

"A bit of a pansy, actually." She admitted, grimacing good-humoredly. Thankfully, Azzy chuckled, taking his mug for another sip.

"I've heard that description more often than you would think, my dear. It's fine." Jody shook her head.

"But that flashy friend of yours_…_ I've been working as a sheriff for over thirty years, so let me tell you, when I feel like someone's _bad news_, I'm usually right." Azzy actually coughed into his tea (or was it a giggle?), blue-grey eyes twinkling at her from over it.

"Oh, I wouldn't say you're especially _wrong_." He said mildly, still hiding the curve of his smile against his mug, like a secret. "But Crowley's a good person, deep down. He just doesn't like to admit it." Jody shook her head, huffing to herself.

"Tom's the same way." They exchanged a long-suffering glance. In the silence, a sound could be heard, rumbling up the gravel from the main road. Jody perked up a bit, glancing towards the door.

"Oh! That sounds like the van."

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May 24-_

Bored after only a few minutes, Crowley miracled himself a cigarette and stuck it between his lips, lighting it with a touch. Just in time, too, because when he looked up he saw a white van heading in from the entrance. He narrowed his eyes, straightening a little and watching warily as it pulled up beside the Bentley (leaving a good amount of space between them, thankfully). The driver glared at him, climbing out and pushing his trucker cap up on his face. Crowley let his gaze rake over the man's flannel shirt, jeans and old, scruffy vest—all the way up to the beady little eyes and the uncut beard. He grimaced. The man glared at him, bristling and belligerent.

"Can I _help_ you?" Crowley cast him a plaintive smirk that also managed to be condescending.

"_No_, thankfully." The man's brows rose, likely at his accent, and he squinted at Crowley.

"…You _can't_ be Azzy." A corner of the demon's mouth quirked, at that nickname.

"Again, no." He nodded his head back towards the house. "The miss took him inside." The man glanced over his head at the closed door.

"Yeah, she does that. Real neat little housewife, she is." Crowley watched him, noted the grudging affection radiating off him, and almost chuckled. He extended his hand, instead, cigarette still smoking in the other one.

"I take it you're Tom Willis?" Tom smiled, a little awkwardly, and took it. They shook.

"Guilty as charged. Er, Crowley, should I assume?" The demon inclined his head, grinning a bit, sharp and sure.

"Anthony _J. _Crowley, if you don't mind." Tom squinted at him, mid-handshake.

"Oh, yeah? What's the J for?" Crowley's mind worked, coming up with a lie fast.

"Er. Jesus?" He winced inwardly at himself for his subconscious pulling out the _one name in existence_ that wasn't appropriate. But still, Crowley made an effort to smile smoothly, radiating confidence (like a puffed-up rooster) as Tom peered at him.

"…Yeah, I see why you just use the J." Crowley nodded.

"Yep. _Parents_. What'cha gonna do?" He was a bit relieved when Tom let go. As the American turned to the house, the demon covertly wiped his hand off on his trousers. He took another drag, smirking behind the curling smoke as the door opened and Jody appeared, Aziraphale close behind her.

"Hey, Tom!" She called, and Aziraphale hurried down to grasp Tom's hand, beaming at him.

"Tom, dear boy! It's a pleasure to finally meet you. And may I say, your wife is such a _darling."_ Crowley smirked as Jody's cheekbones flushed, and Tom laughed.

"Heh, you must've caught her on a good day, then!" The demon grinned as Jody glared at him, and sauntered quietly up to Aziraphale's side, taking in the scene.

"If you want dinner, you'd better not say things like that, _Tom." _The emphasis seemed to sober him up, and he frowned at her.

"Just having a little fun, Jody." Aziraphale chuckled, regaining Tom's attention. His eyes were warm.

"Happy to see you. We aren't imposing?" Tom turned to smile gruffly at him.

"Not at all." His eyes wandered over to Crowley, then back to Aziraphale. "Hey, um." The angel blinked up at him, and Tom shifted, awkward with all the attention. "Er, I 'member you talkin' about this guy—Crowley—before, but is he… y'know…" Tom floundered as Aziraphale's forehead began to knit together in confusion. "I mean, eh—you two _are_ traveling _alone_ out here, right?"

Crowley scowled, suddenly realizing the implications, and moved forward, pulling Aziraphale's arm from Tom's grasp. He pushed himself into Tom's face, jaw sharp and set, expression rigid.

"We are. What of it?" Tom stared at him (Crowley could _see_ the snappy response forming in his head), and Jody opened her mouth, but the angel beat her to it.

"Oh! He's just my… erm. Life partner." Aziraphale said it with the slow enunciation of one learning a new word. Crowley felt his face go ashen, snapping his head around to stare at the angel in horror.

_**Where'd**__ he hear that?! _

_Crowley_ certainly had been careful never to use it around the angel! What the demon _actually_ said was more along the lines of—

"_Whuh?!"_ But Aziraphale wasn't looking at him, instead blinking at Jody—her hand was covering her mouth, hiding a huge grin. Crowley's gaze flicked over to Tom, who was still staring, and then, sod it all, Crowley started babbling, laughing nervously to try and dispel the tension. "Er, that is—ah, we're not really, you know, that _way_, it's just—we're friends, and no one else was heading over here, so it—we just ended up—" Jody giggled (Crowley would_ bless _on it that that's what he heard) but then smirked, patting Tom's shoulder.

"They're all right, aren't they, Tom?" Tom seemed to (physically, as his head moved) shake himself out of his surprise. He smiled at them, kind but also clearly taken aback.

"Er, yeah. Sorry. I guess I'd just assumed…" Crowley shook his head, lifting his cigarette and gesturing with it to drive the point home.

"No, now you _listen_ _here_, this bastard and I _aren't—" _His words died in his throat as Jody cooed at him, and Crowley felt his ears burning red. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale gazed at him in sympathy, reaching out to take the hand still in Crowley's pocket, squeezing it gently.

"Crowley. _Do_ calm down, won't you?" Crowley recognized the words of warning meant his energy was beginning to fluctuate, and slowly tried to relax, fighting the tension in his chest. Aziraphale's other arm went around his shoulders, and Crowley _knew_ this was just driving the misconception further home, but…

Well, it_ did_ feel nice. And there would be no convincing the humans otherwise (not without messing about with their heads, and the angel tended to frown on that not only in general, but _especially_ with his friends, so…) now that they'd got the thought in their head, so maybe he'd best give up and—

"Hey, what's going on out here? Whoa! Whose car is that? It's _awesome._" Crowley's blood pressure shot up as he recognized the voice, eyes frantic behind their covering lenses as they snapped over to its source. Everyone turned to greet the newcomer, but to Crowley it seemed in slow motion, a _horrible face_ on top of that body clad in grey mechanic overalls. He swallowed, fingers suddenly clutching frantically to Aziraphale's, wanting to wish them away in that very _moment_, but these were the angel's _friends_, and he _couldn't—he couldn't—_

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May 24-_

"Hey, is he all right?" Dean frowned towards the pale, black-haired man who had gone rigid, his breath suddenly picking up. The blond, plump man he was half-hanging off was gazing at the pale man apprehensively, tone soft.

"What's the matter, dearest?" But the pale man just shook his head, dropped his cigarette and _clung_ to him_—_burying his face in the blond's neck, his shoulders shaking, hands clutching at fabric. The blond man blinked, expression shifting from awkward to worried and Jody moved forward, concern in her voice, hands moving to help.

"We should get him inside. Here, let me—" The blond man cast her a helpless glance and Dean noted that he pulled the other man closer, despite only being able to shuffle awkwardly with the way the shivering pale man was wrapped around him.

"I-I don't think it would be wise for you to touch him right now, Jody." The blond turned his head, pressing his lips to the pale man's hair and murmuring something inaudible, even as he firmly supported the man's weight against him. Dean blinked. Then the blond shifted, addressing Jody again, gaze anxious. "Perhaps somewhere to lie down?" She nodded, and hurried inside, the blond man with his charge plodding slowly after. Dean stared at Bobby. Bobby glanced away from the door, meeting his gaze. Dean frowned.

"What was that?" Bobby sighed, shaking his head and lifting his trucker cap, scratching his forehead.

"I dunno. They just got in. Maybe it's jet lag?" Dean scoffed, glancing back at the door.

"Looked more like a panic attack." Jody's voice interrupted them.

"Could use some _help_ in here, boys!" They both winced, but obeyed.

The blond man had half-dragged his friend through the front door, over the hall and into the living room, and was now hefting him across the carpet towards the couch. They were almost there, when the pale man suddenly whimpered, his knees buckling. (It was actually more like a wall had slammed into him.) The blond man fell atop his friend (as he was still trying to move forward, and the stop was abrupt), gasping in surprise.

"Crowley! What _is_ it, my dear, why are you so—" His voice died as the pale man grabbed him and hissed something in his ear. The blond man's head tipped to hear better, then his eyes flicked up to the ceiling. He paled, and Dean took a sharp intake of breath, knowing what was up there. He stared straight at the blond man, and Bobby beside him growled what they were all thinking.

"You're _demons."_ Blue-grey eyes narrowed, and the blond man pushed himself to his feet. Bobby shoved Jody back into the hall behind him, and Dean heard the front door close.

"Remove this Devil's Trap." The blond man said sternly, indicating the ceiling. His hand rested atop the pale man's head, who was now clinging to the blond man's leg. Dean narrowed his eyes, smirking humorlessly.

"Yeah, I don't think we're lettin' you out." Bobby cast him a sharp look, telling him to be silent, eyes shiftily flicking elsewhere for a bare second. Dean frowned but obeyed, slowly moving towards the indicated spot. Bobby kept his eyes on the blond demon, walking a little ways to the side and picking up a flask. His voice was even, hard.

"So why're you possessing those poor bastards, eh? Figured you'd catch me off-guard?" The blond demon's eyes narrowed, and he stood up a little straighter.

"We are not _possessing_ them. These are _our _bodies." Bobby gave him a cynical grin.

"Sure they are." He jiggled the flask. "Know what's in here?" The blond demon's eyes narrowed, and Bobby smiled threateningly. "Holy water. And that up there?" He pointed with a thumb, smug. "_That_ ain't comin' down." Bobby moved to sit on the edge of his desk, safely outside of the Devil's Trap painted on the ceiling overhead. "So let's settle in for a nice, long chat, shall we?" The blond demon's lips pursed, focused entirely on Bobby and Dean quietly pulled their 'insurance' from its hiding place.

"I'm afraid I would rather not." His voice was cool, still firm, and patient. "If you don't mind, I'd rather you just let us go." The pale demon at his feet curled tighter against him, and the blond demon's mouth hardened. "Please." Dean snorted at him, and Bobby's tone was abruptly loud and angry.

"You're possessing my _friend_, you unholy sunuvabitch!" The blond demon frowned and the pale demon whimpered, hiding his face against the blond demon's knee.

"I told you, we're not possessing anyone." Bobby grinned at that.

"We'll just see about that. _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas—" _The pale demon shuddered, and Dean noticed the blond demon's attention immediately shifted, his eyes wide and anxious, plump fingers smoothing back the other demon's black hair.

"Crowley?" The pale demon grunted, twisting his fingers into the blond demon's trousers, hissing up at him. Dean couldn't understand, but the blond demon's eyes widened and he glanced sharply up at Bobby, who was still reading.

"—_omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica_—"

"An _exorcism?" _Dean heard the blond demon whisper, but it didn't have fear in it. The pale demon jerked, whimpering in agony as Bobby went on and Dean saw the blond demon's eyes narrow, very slowly. Something was wrong. The pale demon was writhing in pain as he should be, but—Dean felt a chill in the air. He met Bobby's eyes across the room, and Bobby paused in his reading. The blond demon spoke very softly, fingers gently splaying over the pale demon's forehead.

"Stop reciting _now_, Robert Singer, or I will _make_ you." Bobby's stubbornness raised its head, though, and he met the blond demon's hostile stare with a mirthless grin.

"Then _make_ me. _Ergo, draco maledicte—"_

"_Allar bia."_ The blond demon interrupted softly, and Dean felt his throat close up around him. Bobby's lips kept moving, but no sound came out. The pale demon on the floor slumped in relief, and Dean noticed that, again, the blond demon's attention went to him as he knelt, hands sliding to the pale demon's shoulders. "Is that better, dear?" This time, Dean could hear the response (although it sounded more like a long string of 's's in-between other words).

"Sssancsstified… ssstookss you long enough…" The blond demon smiled down at him, tugging the pale demon into his lap as he provided a pillow with his thighs.

"I'm sorry." He glanced guiltily up at Bobby—who was glaring _daggers_ at him, and had grabbed a pistol, cocking it in his face. A tug on the blond demon's sleeve from the pale demon redirected the blond demon's attention, and he gave him a small smile, lifting his hand. "I suppose I should do it myself, then?"

He snapped his fingers and the ceiling cracked, breaking the circle of the Devil's Trap overhead. Dean stared at him, a realization clawing at the back of his mind.

_Not affected by exorcism, isn't taunting, won't bargain, able to manipulate the world at will…_

_But it's impossible, no __**way**__—_

The blond demon was preoccupied trying to heft the other demon to his feet, and Dean felt his hand move, bringing the gun up. He cocked it, and the sound caught both demons' attention, but the blond one seemed puzzled, staring at the Colt from across the room as though he didn't know what it was [21]. The pale demon could barely move, though, and couldn't manage much more than a grunt and a half-hearted attempt to glance behind him.

"Angel?" Bobby's face went white at the same time Dean pulled the trigger.

The blond angel's—_angel_, not demon, as _impossible as it seemed_—face was frozen in a look of surprise, the bullet hole lodging itself square between his eyes. He collapsed against the side of Bobby's desk, instantly dead, blood dripping from his forehead. Dean slowly began to approach the pale demon—who _was _actually a demon, apparently—as it stared at the dead angel for a few seconds. Dean's shoe squeaked and the demon whipped around, then, lightning-fast as a striking snake (oh, crap, _wait,_ it really_ was _a striking snake!) and lunged for Dean, hissing. He dodged and the long, thick black snake coiled up near the wall, yellow eyes only slits as its body undulated around it.

Dean and Bobby heard its voice in their heads, chilling them to the bone.

_Youuu__** sssssstupid**__—I am going sstoo __**masssssacre**__ you, and when I'm __**done**__, I'll—_

"Oooh, that _smarts!" _A whine from the center of the room drew their attention, and it was stone silent as the _dead angel_ moved, groaning in pain and holding his head. He blinked away the small stream of blood that'd dripped into his eyes and frowned fuzzily down at the specks of red on his shirt. He whined in the back of his throat as he pulled the material out to better examine the damage. "Oh _no_, I loved this shirt why hello dear."

The (demonic) black snake had shot across the room and around the angel's waist in the span of a millisecond, curling up securely around his neck like a boa and pressing the top of his head against the underside of the angel's chin. Those yellow vertically-slit eyes couldn't be doing anything _but_ glaring at Bobby and Dean. They exchanged an awkward look as the blond angel blinked at his new (quite protective) accessory, then glanced up at Bobby with a guilty smile.

"I'm sorry for not being completely honest, before, but if you don't mind—" The angel waved his hand, and the Colt jumped out of Dean's fingers and across the air to land in the angel's palm. He blinked at it, tipping his head and humming, tracing the wood with his thumb. "My, this is a strange weapon. Where did you get it?" The angel looked curiously up at Dean, then blinked and smiled sheepishly. "Oh, here." He waved a hand. Dean felt his throat unclench from whatever had tightened it, before. (It was weird, because Dean _certainly _hadn't done it, himself.) The angel glanced back at Bobby, lips pursing a little. "I _do _hope there shan't be any more attempted exorcisms, old boy?" The angel squinted up at him. "They tend to make dear Crowley quite uncomfortable." He patted the thick snake wound around him, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet and swaying just a little (probably due to the unexpected added weight), leaning on the desk for support as he shook his head. Dean watched, deeply disturbed as the bullet mark was _sucked_ back into the angel's skin, leaving no sign it had ever been there.

"Uh." Bobby started, clearing his throat, and the angel smiled at him, reaching out his hand.

"Let's try this again, shall we? My name is Aziraphale." Bobby stared at the hand for a moment, then looked the angel in the face, apparently not quite believing that the angel _wasn't_ trying to kill him for what he'd done. (Hell, Dean would've expected that, too. Not this…whatever-the-angel-was-doing, instead.) The angel frowned at him, shushing the snake as it hissed something in their heads, that black head tipping up to flick its forked tongue against the angel's ear.

_Ssssstupid humansss. Jusst leaave 'em, sssZira._

"You're not helping, Crowley. Er." The angel smiled disarmingly, but stubbornly kept his hand extended as he rambled on. "Erm, that is." Dean found blue-grey eyes darting to him, momentarily. "I… Well, we seem to have run into you anyway, so perhaps we'd best just be introduced and go our separate ways, yes?" The angel beamed, apparently desperate to mend the void. "You see, Mr. Singer, I don't wish any harm to you and yours—Jody is quite delightful company and I'm sure you and, er, the mechanic over there are lovely, too, when you're not threatening perfectly innocent man-shaped beings—and am willing to overlook the fact you, ah..._ wouldn't_ let Crowley out of the Devil's Trap unless I intervened—and _really_, you shooting me was possibly unfortunately unavoidable because I'm sure you were both quite frightened—but perhaps you should reconsider violence as a viable solution, because as you can see, _this,_ apparently—" The angel looked to his other hand, smiling in relief at the Colt. "—does _not _work on angels, thank goodness, and as I don't suppose you have any holy oil around as a back-up and as I, after all, _can_ freeze you in place if I so choose, I do honestly think it would be in everyone's best interests to shake hands and let bygones be bygones, yes?" The angel beamed at Bobby, hand still extended, and for a moment everyone was silent.

Then Bobby coughed, and reached forward, grasping the angel's hand.

"…Uh. Right. Sounds good. What did you say your name was, again?" They shook, and the angel smiled, clearly relieved as he handed over the Colt to Bobby easily enough.

"Aziraphale. Although, I do suppose that is a bit long to remember—" Shamefaced, Bobby tried an awkward smile.

"Eh. Azzy, then?" (The snake snorted, but everyone ignored it.) "Uh. So you're an angel?" Azira—screw it, _Azzy_ was just _easier—_nodded, and Bobby peered at the snake wound around him. "But he's a demon, then?" The angel drew back the hand that had held the Colt and let it rest over one of the coils wrapped around him, glancing down at the black head with a smile. Yellow eyes glittered up at him, and the angel pecked a light kiss atop his head. The snake hissed, ducking down the front of his sweatervest [22] and the angel chuckled, peering back up at Bobby.

"Yes." Azzy smoothed his palm over a thick coil soothingly, and the snake's head poked out the bottom of his vest. Bobby's face was disturbed as he met those yellow eyes.

"Uh. Isn't that… well. A bit odd?" The angel blinked at him, and the snake hissed.

"Oh!" The angel chuckled, at last releasing Bobby's hand and moving his hand down for the snake to curl around. It did so, climbing up his arm and using it for support. "Well, yes, Crowley usually isn't in this shape, he prefers legs, but you see, with all the stress—"

"So that's Crowley?" Dean interrupted, drawing attention to himself as he strode over, scowling at the coiled demon. The angel blinked up at him, then smiled.

"Yes, of course." Dean frowned, leaning close. Yellow eyes narrowed at him, and the snake hissed.

_Whasss're __**you**__ looking atss?_

"You made a Deal with me." Dean stated, point-blank and angry. "Why're you showing up now? I've got three more months." The angel blinked again, then glared at the snake, voice incensed.

"_Dearest!_ You told me you _weren't_ the type of demon to make Deals!" The snake flicked its forked tongue out at him, and the mental voice in their heads sounded unhappy.

_'sss nots me, angel._ The snake's eyes flitted up to Dean, its nostrils flaring in what Dean supposed was irritation. _Letss me __**guesss**__. You made a Deal wiss a crosssroadss demon usssing my name?_ Dean scowled at him.

"You expect me to buy that there're _two_ demons named Crowley? C'mon, I wasn't born yesterday." The snake hissed at him, baring fangs, and Dean jerked back.

_ Sssstupid! He didn'tsss likess hisss, sso he ssstookss mine! __**I'm**__ Crowley! He'sss jusst an ill-bred sssmarmy Sssscottissh basstard who ssshowed up in Hell in sse sssickssteen-hundredss and desssided he liked sse doorss my name opened. _Dean's brows furrowed.

"What?" The angel sighed, rubbing his palm gently over the snake's scales, again.

"Crowley here has been around since the beginning." He smiled. "Trust me, I've been there. But, my dear, you never _mentioned_ there's another demon going around claiming to be you." He sent a reproachful™ look at the snake and its tongue flicked out, brushing his cheek.

_'sss nots importsssantss, angel._ Azzy huffed, eyes narrowing down at him.

"Of course it is! What if he gets you into trouble?" The snake eyed him, head sliding to bump against his chin, again.

_'ss Hell, sssZira. Ssstuff likes ssats happenss all sse ssstime. 'ssss ssafer stoo sssstay quietss. _The angel shook his head, clearly disagreeing, voice firm.

"We'll discuss this later, old boy." The snake slumped in defeat, and Dean saw Bobby blink, as though suddenly realizing something.

"Hey. You wouldn't be able to… uh, cancel a Deal, would you?" Dean cut him off, voice sharp.

"Bobby." Bobby glared back at him.

"It don't hurt to _ask!"_ A hissing chuckle caused them to glance at the snake, who would be grinning (if snakes could).

_You sstry stoo __**kill**__ usss, and now you assssk for __**help? **_The snake snorted (if snakes_ could_ snort, that is), shaking its head. _You humansss. Sssinking sse world revolvesss around you._

"Look, can you help or not?" Bobby snapped, and Azzy gazed down at the snake softly.

"Dearest… ?"

_I can'tss. _The snake said, simply, peering up at Bobby. _Ssssorry. Nots my jurisssdictssion._

They stood there for a moment, the silence tight and heavy around them. Dean broke it.

"So how long until you're, uh, not a snake anymore?" The snake glared at him, and Dean grinned, hiding his anxiety. Azzy sighed, smoothing his palm over the snake again and casting an apologetic smile towards Dean.

"He needs some time to recover." The angel blinked, tipping his head to peer at something presumably in the hall (it was actually the window). "Er." He glanced back at Bobby. "Might Miss Jody come back in? I believe we've sorted everything, haven't we?" Bobby winced.

"Crap. I forgot. Hold on." He shook his head, heading for the door. The angel, Dean and the snake stood (except for the snake, who was more hanging off Azzy) awkwardly in the resounding silence.

"So, uh—" The snake sighed.

_Don'tss assssk. It'sss a long sstory._ Dean shut his mouth with a snap, blinking.

"Oh. Um. OK?" The angel smiled sportingly up at him.

"Perhaps later, dear. Crowley's a bit tired, at the moment." Dean nodded, trying not to be too weirded out as he watched the demonic snake curl up and around the angel's neck. But Azzy seemed perfectly fine with it—content, even—so he decided to let it go. Hey, it's not like _his_ life was _normal._ Dean snorted to himself.

Boy, would _he _have a story for Sam on the drive back from Stanford, next week.

[21] Dean didn't know if it would work on angel, but it was worth a _try_, at least, when nothing else they had on hand_ would!_

[22] It should be noted that Aziraphale was wearing a button-up, collared shirt beneath his sweatervest, so when Crowley ducked beneath the aforementioned vest, he still only slithered innocently against fabric. (Get your minds out of the gutter, people!)

~END CHAPTER SEVEN~


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 8/24

Word Count: 10,337

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Serpent of Eden, Bobby, Dean, Jody, Lucifer, Michael, Atropos

Warning(s): Language, espionage, dangerous driving, violence-by-design, private drunkenness.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, August 10, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_2 Corinthians 8:10 _

_And in this matter I give my judgment: this benefits you, who a year ago started not only to do this work but also to desire to do it._

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May-_

Two days after the Devil's Trap incident, Crowley was still a snake. He wasn't happy, even if Aziraphale was a bit, er, _enraptured_ with Bobby's collection (so to speak). Jody and Bobby had offered the angel the small guest bedroom upstairs, just across the hall from their master bedroom and around the corner from Sam and Dean's. Aziraphale had smiled at them and thanked them for their hospitality, but ended up refusing—saying he didn't need to sleep, and so wouldn't be needing the bed. It made Crowley quite miffed at him, actually, because sleeping was an integral part of _his _nightly ritual and this house (with all its hunter paraphernalia) made him nervous. It wouldn't have been so bad if Aziraphale hadn't essentially stuck to the room with the ruined Devil's Trap [1], because now Crowley had _bad associations_ with that room per the Incident. It was even worse because he still hadn't recovered enough energy to shift back to a man shape, yet.

It wasn't that the Devil's Trap had sapped his strength, but the exorcism had been a bit debilitating. Being a Fallen (and therefore having a tailor-made body which meant, conveniently, that Crowley _didn't_ need to subjugate a human to move it), those incantations couldn't quite send him back to Hell, but they _could_ force him out of his corporation. It was more annoying than threatening, really. Being forced out—because the body wouldn't die without him in it, just collapse—he'd need to find someone to do the proper incantation for him to re-enter, or else he'd just hover about like a ghost for a while. The most recent 'exorcism' he could recall had happened with a saint in the 16th Century.

Crowley had found himself hovering near the ceiling, his body just sort of flopped over beneath him on the floor. It had taken him a few weeks to get it through Aziraphale's thick head that he needed the _angel's_ help for the spell. Settling back in had proven a bit unhygenic, because the body had had plenty of time to get really disgusting (not that it had decomposed, really, it was just—well, more-or-less in what people would call a 'coma', these days, and he'd very nearly avoided it being thrown in a premature grave). Crowley'd coughed and sneezed for _hours_ after it was all finished, just expelling dust that'd gathered in the back of his throat and nose. Aziraphale had gone out and bought a bottle of wine (feeling it was appropriate, for the ordeal the poor demon'd been through) and they spent the next few hours getting positively _knackered_.

But thankfully, that hadn't happened this time [2]. Still, Aziraphale was clearly enamored by the sheer _range_ of old books in Bobby's library, and that first night Crowley'd taken up Bobby and Jody on their offer of the guest bedroom. After a few minutes lying coiled beneath the bed, though, he realized he was too anxious (it was a wonder why, considering he was in a house full of sleeping _hunters)_ to relax, and had slithered out into the hall and down the stairs, to where Aziraphale was seated at Bobby's desk. The angel had been bent over a book, completely spellbound. Hesitating briefly, Crowley'd then zig-zagged his way across the carpet and under the couch. He swayed his head and peered towards Aziraphale from under the shadows, but the angel didn't move. Crowley coiled up in the darkness against the carpet, staring unblinkingly at Aziraphale.

A few minutes later, the snake stopped breathing, and the angel smiled very softly to himself. The feeling of being stared at didn't bother him—thousands of years of getting used to Crowley's habits (including sleep) meant getting used to a blank stare as he slept. When he was in human form Crowley'd discovered it took a good amount of effort to relax if his eyes were closed, and so had simply brushed it off and let his body deal with it as it liked. This had the unforeseen effect of Aziraphale feeling as though he had company when, in fact, said company was actually _asleep_ (although the sunglasses helped with that illusion, too). But when Crowley stopped breathing, it meant he was truly relaxed. No more of the ever-present nervous energy took his attention in those moments when he slept, and initially Aziraphale had been relieved for the quiet. Then it had grown into a strange sort of camaraderie as he realized that Crowley felt comfortable enough to sleep around him. It also helped that—when single-mindedly focused on one of his books—Aziraphale did not tend to spend much energy on absent-minded gestures (such as tapping a foot on the ground). He wasn't human, after all, and did not tend to fidget or shift to relieve cramped muscles, even after hours in the same position. It was quite relieving for Crowley, too—or so Aziraphale imagined, anyway—because the angel knew how sensitive snakes were to vibrations.

The short version of it was that Crowley (only as a snake, mind you) felt safer sleeping in Aziraphale's presence because he trusted the angel not to wake him every five minutes with annoying shufflings (as a human might). For Aziraphale, it was a (moderately) new experience for him to observe Crowley's habits when asleep, and over time he'd gotten used to a faint thrum of another being (which wasn't distracting, not really) in the room with him.

This happened only on occasion, of course. Crowley still tended to sleep in his bed in his apartment in Mayfair, and Aziraphale still tended to read his books in his backroom in Soho. Well, to be honest, that was the _ideal_ situation—when they were in London, and quite comfortable. For the past four years, however, they had been living in a human household, invisible to the adults' eyes (which usually meant occupying the basement, the attic or the roof [3]). Aziraphale had initially offered up the idea of Crowley playing the part of Jesse's 'new pet snake', but Crowley had shot him down immediately. (He was already pretending to be the consecrated angel's _apprentice_, there was no need to degrade him further to the station of _pet._)

But, yes, the first night at Bobby's went relatively calmly. The next morning, however, Crowley was quite rudely awakened by the vibrations of heavy footsteps down the stairs. He peered blearily out from under the couch as Aziraphale looked up from his book for the first time in hours. It was Dean who jumped down onto the landing, seeming to stare at them for a moment before grinning.

"Hey! Mornin'. Sleep well?" Aziraphale smiled at him, fingertip still poised over the place where he'd stopped. Crowley tried not to smirk to himself at the angel's steadfast (forced) patience, despite being interrupted.

"Good morning. Thank you for asking, but I don't need to sleep." Dean blinked at him, but Aziraphale's smile soldiered on. "But I believe Crowley slept well, didn't you dear?" Dean's hand jerked in an aborted movement (reaching for something?) as Crowley poked his head out from under the couch. The snake couldn't help but want to grin up at him, and Aziraphale chuckled as Dean's eyes narrowed.

"Uh, hey. Didn't see you there." Crowley didn't deign to answer, but slithered across the floor to Aziraphale's ankle. He wound up over his leg, heading for higher ground even as the angel tutted at him.

"Really, Crowley. We're _guests._" The demon recognized that tone and sorely wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, he curled around the angel's elbow and swiveled his head towards Dean.

_Ssssorry. Notss really a morning perssson._ Dean eyed him warily for a moment.

"Dude, I'm never gonna get used to a talking _snake."_ Crowley hissed at Dean (he _didn't_ need to be reminded he couldn't change back yet, thank-you-very-much), and dove under Aziraphale's sweatervest through the armpit, signalling the end of his participation in the conversation. He heard Aziraphale's voice rumble out apologetically above him.

"Give it time, dear. Once he's recovered enough he'll be back to normal." Crowley was slightly mollified from his sulk as one of the angel's hands (_not_ the one holding his place in the book) rubbed gently over the bulge that was Crowley coiled over his stomach. He nudged the hand in acknowledgement, and settled in against the angel's body heat.

Crowley spent most of that day hanging off Aziraphale (not that the angel seemed to mind). It wasn't that he was being clingy, but it was awfully unnerving not to be at eye-level. Snakes could only get so far up off the ground, after all, and it was hard to be spoken to as an equal when he was (quite literally) being talked _down_ to. Bobby and Jody floated in and out of the house, and Dean spent most of his time in the garage. Truth be told, the angel was as happy as a clam to be able to peruse Bobby's collection in peace, even if he did take breaks for meals (to be polite, of course). Initially, Bobby had been wary of Aziraphale—as though looking for a trick, for which Crowley couldn't really blame him. But the angel's manner seemed to drive it home again and again that he had really _meant_ what he said, and the meals passed cheerfully enough over talk of old books. (Dean and Crowley were bored out of their _skulls_, and Jody just sat there and smirked at them between courses.) Some of the congenial atmosphere might have had to do with the fact Aziraphale had also known Bobby (as "Tom Willis") for a good decade or so, and that Jody liked him. (Perhaps part of it might have also been attributed to Aziraphale _not_ flaunting his angelic status such that the humans felt threatened. Crowley had noticed—even while he was dizzy against the Latin words of exorcism—that these hunter-types tended to scare easily. It was another reason he avoided them. He _didn't_ want to get exorcized just because he played a harmless _prank_, for Manchester's sake!)

The second night, Crowley bypassed going upstairs entirely and settled under the couch again. The hours passed much the same as those the night before, with Aziraphale hunched over a book and Crowley dozing. The morning ritual repeated, and nothing remarkable happened until dinner. The conversation had turned towards angels, which led to Crowley actually remarking on a thought he'd had, a few days earlier.

_Sssso_ _how could sssZira getss in, anyway? If you're huntsersss, wouldn'ts you alsssso have angel wardss?_

Bobby cast a glance at Jody. She smiled at him, then answered Crowley.

"That was me, I'm afraid. I had Bobby remove the Enochian sigils from the windows the day before you dropped by. Didn't want to scare a pair of British tourists with all _that_ scribbled everywhere." Crowley snorted, and Aziraphale blinked at them.

"Ah. Well, I suppose that makes sense." Bobby shifted, uncomfortable, but the angel went on, as though he'd just realized something. "Oh, but… where did you learn those sigils? I wasn't aware anyone on Earth knew them." Bobby grunted, reaching for the milk.

"Some girl came around, a few years back. Said that some of the sigils we were writing were wrong, and gave us the right ones." Crowley glanced up just in time to see Aziraphale's brows furrow.

"Did she?" Bobby nodded, peering at him from over the table.

"Yep. Why?" Aziraphale hesitated, and Crowley curled his tail around the angel's wrist. Aziraphale seemed to master his words after a moment, and smiled across the table at Bobby.

"It's just… it's curious." Aziraphale glanced down at Crowley, and the demon flicked his tongue at him, then slithered his head onto the table. He squinted up at the humans.

_sssZira found, a few yearss back, sssatss ssere are a lotsss of angelss on Earths, rightss now._ Bobby frowned down at him, and Crowley stared back, unblinking.

"Did he, now?" Dean interjected.

"But that fits, don't it? The last twenty years or so we've been seeing more angels around than ever before, right?" Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise.

"Have you?" Dean nodded, face grim.

"Yeah. They're everywhere. What'd you think, Bobby, about how many a year?" Bobby frowned, rubbing a thoughtful hand over his beard.

"Mebbe twenty, thirty?" Aziraphale put a hand to his mouth, shocked.

"Oh _my._" Bobby squinted at him.

"You know somethin' about this?" Aziraphale shook his head and Crowley huffed a response.

_We hafen'tss been in sse loop sssince 1990. Ssey don'ts tell usss anyssssing. _A few of Aziraphale's fingers curled gently around Crowley's tail under the table, his voice quiet.

"Except the apocalypses, dear." The humans at the table started, staring at them. There was an uncomfortable beat of silence as Crowley peered up at the angel. All eyes went to Dean as he blurted.

"Wait—but—you don't mean—" Aziraphale cast a sad smile towards him.

"I'm afraid so, dear."

"But the world hasn't ended! How can they be apocalypses if we're not _gone?"_ Crowley hissed a laugh, raising his head off the table a bit.

_Don'tss be ssstupid. Jusssst becaussse __**you**__ didn'ts know aboutsss itss doessssn'ts mean Heaven and Hell weren'ts planning __**sssomesing.**_

"Crowley's right, I'm afraid." The demon curled his tail against the angel's soothing strokes, glancing back at Aziraphale. Bobby stared at the angel, but he couldn't help but ask.

"Well. How many?" Aziraphale's voice was tired.

"There have been three attempts to end the world. One in 1990, another in 2000—"

_Y2K. _Crowley offered.

"—yes, and the most recent one was intended to be a few days ago. Specifically, May 21, 2011." Crowley redirected his attention to the ghastly faces of the three humans at the table.

"But… _why."_ It was Jody who whispered that, looking at Aziraphale, clearly horrified. The angel's voice was soft and sad.

"Both sides want this to happen, dear lady."

_Yeah. Anossser reasson we don'ts have anyssing stoo do wiss sse bassstardss, anymore._

"Wait, you mean you're not—you're both AWOL?" Aziraphale gave Dean a puzzled look.

"But we're… we're not _walls_, I should think that's apparent—" Crowley hissed another laugh.

_Sssat'ss a good way of puttsing itss. _Aziraphale tugged gently on his tail, questioning.

"Crowley?" The snake shifted to peer back at him.

_'sss means we don'ts ansswer to ssem, anymore. _The angel blinked.

"Ah." He looked up, smiling a little, his fingertips curling against Crowley's scales beneath the table. "Well that's true enough." Dean leaned forward, his eyes bright, his slow grin both awed and admiring.

"That's _awesome._ Dude, and you guys haven't gotten in trouble?" The angel looked embarrassed and Crowley gave Dean a smug look.

_Notss a bitsss. _Aziraphale tutted, poking at Crowley's side and sending him a mild glance.

"Really, dear. It's all Adam's doing, you know. It's simply our luck he_ liked_ us."

"Adam? Don't tell me you mean—" Aziraphale looked up at Bobby's inquiry, smiling a little.

"No, no, of course not the _first_ Adam—although he was rather nice, too." The angel added absent-mindedly. "No, Adam is a boy—"

_'ss thirty-ssstwo now, angel._

"Er, really? Goodness, how time _soars—"_

_Itss **flies**, angel._

"Oh, I see."

"But he's—?" Bobby prompted, more than a little impatient. Aziraphale beamed at him.

"He's the antichrist. Lucifer's son." The table went deadly silent. Aziraphale blinked. Dean roared.

"What the _hell_? The actual _antichrist—_on _Earth?! _How is that a _good_ thing, he's—"

"The one who saved the world in 1990, actually." Aziraphale cut in, primly, eyes narrowing on Dean. The hunter stared at him, aghast, one of his hands waving wildly.

"But he's a… a… _thing! _A creature! He's—"

"—the reason_ you_ are still here, my dear lad, and I think you'd do well not to forget it." The angel added dryly, now glaring at Dean with the severe air of a schoolteacher. "Adam chose not to end the world in 1990 because he was raised _human_, and so put as much value in the Earth and its people as any other human would. It matters not that he was born differently—he made a _choice_, and he's one of a very few beings in existence who can _make_ a choice like that and have neither Heaven nor Hell be able to do anything about it."

_He alssso made ssem forgets. _Crowley felt the need to point out. Dean frowned at him.

"Eh? So, what, he brainwashed them?" Crowley huffed, ignoring Aziraphale's confused stutter.

"Er—no, Adam didn't _spray _anything—"

_Notss really. He jussst made its sso no one woulds remember, ssat'sss all. And aftssser sse angel and I didn'ts receive any ordersss for a few yearss, we figured we gots off sssscots-free._ Bobby snorted in disbelief.

"Lucky sons-o'-bitches, ain'tcha?" Crowley flicked his tongue at him, eyes projecting a grin.

_Yepss. _Bobby shook his head, then squinted at Aziraphale.

"So's there another one comin' up that we should be knowin' about, then?" The angel shook his head.

"Not yet, that we know of. You haven't received any word, Crowley?" The snake shrugged (an interesting maneuver that dipped his head beneath the line of his neck, for a moment).

_Nosssing yets. _Bobby eyed them, reticently hopeful.

"Well, maybe they've finally giv'n up on 't?" Aziraphale sighed.

"I certainly hope so, but we won't know until they send out another broadcast." Dean gave him a weird look.

"Broadcast?" Aziraphale blinked at him, then smiled a bit.

"Angels—"

_Or ssossse of angel sssstock._

"—can communicate with each other through our link with the Host—"

_Or Legion._

"_Do_ stop interrupting, Crowley."

_Sssss…_

"Don't give me that look, you old snake, or you'll get no dessert!" The demon scowled to himself (since snakes couldn't actually manage that—or any, really—facial expression) and ducked his head beneath the table, sulking in Aziraphale's lap. The angel cleared his throat, and smiled patiently at Dean.

"Yes, well. As I was saying, angels can communicate with each other, as long as they are still connected to the Host—er, or _Legion_, in the case with Hell's Fallen angels. Crowley and I have not been _dis_connected, and so we can overhear when they announce the changed apocalypse date." Aziraphale paused, mouth quietly tightening, and Dean blinked at him.

"So—what, you get an update, or something?" Something clicked in his head, and Dean scowled. "But, hold on a sec, if you're gettin' updates zapped into your brain every few years, doesn't that mean all you guys _know_ it's been changed? Doesn't anyone get fed up with that?" Aziraphale smiled bitterly at him.

"I believe Crowley and I are the only two to notice the changes."

"Beg pardon?" At his comment, Aziraphale glanced towards Bobby.

"Crowley and I remember the updates for every apocalypse since 1990, but I suspect it's because Adam rendered us essentially nonexistent to Heaven and Hell. We aren't seen as threats because they don't remember us—or what happened in 1990—and so we haven't been disconnected. Our comrades, I'm afraid—"

_Ossser angelss and demonssss don'tss remember ats all. _Crowley supplied, still out of sight. _Ssey jusssst sssay 'oh, sse apocalypssse'ss coming up', and don'tss realisssze sse nesssxt day ssatsss itss been ressscheduled._

"Dude, that is so not cool." Crowley poked his nose over the table, squinting up at Dean.

_Kidsss, you don'ts know sse halfsss of itss._

[1] Aziraphale had promised to fix it (and the cracked ceiling) as soon as they left. (No need to risk Crowley getting caught by it again, after all.)

[2] The actually-being-excorcized-out-of-his-body part, not the drinking part (although Crowley wouldn't have objected to the latter).

[3] To avoid bumping into anyone accidentally, and also to have a spot where they could 'get away from it all' without actually abandoning their posts.

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, May-_

A demon was returning to her post, after about a week away. She didn't know where she'd gone—nor did she, surprisingly, _care_—but her orders from Azazel had been very clear in that she return to watching Dean Winchester. She was, admittedly, a little annoyed with having to 'babysit', but was also eagerly looking forward to the imminent return of his superstar brother—Sam—from California. She was keeping a respectable distance from the Singer residence, though (as she didn't trust either the old man or Dean not to have a few Devil's Traps hidden past the front gate), and had just comfortably settled herself in the bushes across the street from the entrance to the salvage yard when she felt a _pulse._

A _holy _pulse.

The demon sat up straight, peering through the leaves. Her eyebrows went up as a vintage car—a _nice_ car, classy and sleek, shiny, _black_—rolled out from the gravel entrance and onto the dusty main road. She liked it immediately, although she couldn't place why. Instead, she focused on zoning in on the source of the holy pulse. The source—a blond _angel?_—was clearly visible through the left-hand side of the car, but—oddly—wasn't driving (was it a foreign car, then?). Her brows furrowed as they passed, and the demon's eyes widened as she glimpsed the driver and caught another _pulse._

This time, it was _demonic. _She realized that the car _radiated_ the same demonic energy (it was all over, in small places where dents or scratches might have been), and its source was the _driver._ She couldn't believe she hadn't sensed him, before (although, to be fair, an _angel_ usually caught her senses without fail, because they had an irritating tendency to smite-on-sight_)_.

Kneeling low in the bushes, she watched carefully as the car disappeared down the street, memorizing the license plate. Her fingers unclenched, and the demon felt a pit of unease pooling in her gut. She'd need to call Azazel, later. A demon and an angel, sitting side-by-side—_not_ killing each other? It was_ ludicrous_, because there was absolutely _no _possibility they couldn't sense each other. So they were working together, then? Probably fucking, she candidly admitted to herself, because what other explanation could there be? The angel was probably on the run from Heaven and the demon must have managed to keep himself off Hell's radar. Why else would they be working together? Now that she thought on it, they looked vaguely familiar, too. But _where_ had she seen them, before?

Her lips curled in a smirk. _Oh_, either way, _this_ could be a chance for her to _climb. _She'd no longer be stuck with the grunt work—one of the original _Fallen_ should not be babysitting Azazel's brats!—and she would be_ so_ handsomely rewarded for bringing actually _useful_ information to Lord Lucifer. The smirk widened to a leering grin. _Oh_, those lovebirds were going to _get_ it. Maybe, the Lord would even allow her to have a hand in bringing about the apocalypse next year!

: : :

_**Michael.**_ A wary pause. A moment, to ensure that the other members of the Host (or Legion) were not listening in.

_Lucifer? _An impression of a wry smile.

_**Don't want the boys knowing about your 'dirty little secret', eh? **_A steely response.

_You are no __secret__,_ _Lucifer. What do you want._

_**A demon brought me some interesting news. Thought you might like to hear it.**_

_Oh? What about?_

_**A demon and angel, on Earth. No human vessels. Ring a bell?**_ A holy frown.

_What? No… _An angry huff.

_**C'mon, I **__**know**__** you remember these guys! Well, **__**yours**__**, anyway.**_

_Mine?_

_**The **__**angel**__**, dumbass.**_

_Your crassness is most unbecoming, __Brother__._

_**But you love me, anyway. **_

_I don't have time for this, Lucifer._

_**Oh, ever since Daddy told you to kick me down here you've been no **__**fun**__**.**_

_Get to the __point__._

_**Fine, fine. But, the angel. You remember him, don't you? The Principality?**_

_There are many Principalities in Heaven. You know that._

_**Ah, but this one **__**wasn't**__** in Heaven, Brother!**_

_...You can't mean the field agent._

_**Very good! I'm proud of you, Michael.**_

_But… he was… wasn't he killed?_

_**Ah, the kid's been at work on you, too, I see. I always wondered about that.**_

_About what?_

_**Don't you remember? It was a big to-do in the 1980s. Your side even got a gardener.**_

_A… gardener?_

_**Yes! And ours was a nanny. Both did a horrible job, I must say.**_

_Oh… yes. Yes! That's right. And you released the hellhound in 1990, I felt that one—_

_**See! You **__**do**__** remember!**_

_But… but nothing happened. Didn't it? He died, right? There was a huge battle—_

_**Was**__** there, Michael?**_

_It was… it was around 1990, wasn't it? Something…_

_**Yes, something happened.**_

_I can't remember what, though. It's just… just barely out of reach._

_**Knew that kid would be nothing but trouble. Heh. Was hoping he'd be **__**my**__** kind of trouble, but hey—**_

_Wait, so—he's alive? I can't…_

_**Yeah, don't push too hard or you'll forget again, Mike.**_

_Don't call me that, __Luci__._

_**Ooooh, **__**petty**__**. Nice one.**_

_What is your point, what—wait. What were we talking about?_

_**The **__**field**__** agent, Michael!**_

_ Oh, yes, the one who—_

_**Didn't**__** die!**_

_What?_

_**That angel **__**didn't**__** die, Michael. He's still around.**_

_But... wait. Why do I—why do I feel like it doesn't matter?_

_**Because that's what he **__**did**__** to us, Michael. He did it to everyone.**_

_** '**__He' being…?_

_**The kid! The kid with **__**your**__** gardener and **__**my**__** nanny, only he wasn't—ohhh, ouch.**_

_Oh! __That__ kid! Yes, I remember him! The one who died in 1990!_

_**No! …Ugh. No, he didn't die. **__**Focus**__** on that, Michael.**_

_Oh… ah. All right. So he __didn't__ die. …Ouch._

_**Don't think about it too hard.**_

_Nnnh. OK. But what about him?_

_**It's not **__**about**__** him! It's about the field agents.**_

_What? But aren't they—_

_**That's**__** what I'm trying to tell you! A demon of mine spied an angel and a demon. …**__**Together**__**.**_

_…When you say 'together'…_

_**It was PG, sadly enough.**_

_What?_

_**Nevermind. Anyway, they're both still alive. They didn't die in 1990.**_

_What? But that means… oh, __ouch__._

_**Like I said, don't think about it too hard.**_

_Neh. Fine. But what about them?_

_**Don't you think it's **__**odd**__** we're having such trouble remembering this?**_

_Oh. I, ah… oh, well. Yes. I suppose. …__Yes__, it __is__ strange._

_**I know, right? They did something.**_

_But what?_

_**I can't remember. Something with Be**__**ë**__**lzebub and Metatron. …**__**Oooooh, OUCH.**_

_ Wait, no—no, you're __right.__ They did something, and we were going to… Aaaaah, __ow__. But what __was__ it?_

_**Annoying, isn't it? Damn kid's got some **__**power**__**.**_

_Eh, right. That kid. And the agents who are… __aren't__ dead. Wasn't it something to do with—_

_**Fate? Yeah, Atropos was pretty annoyed for a while. But she forgot.**_

_...We __all__ forgot, didn't we._

_**Sounds about right.**_

_What did we forget, aga—_

_**DON'T think about it!**__** We'll lose it!**_

_Oh, right, sorry. OK, well—Atropos's down with you, right? Keeping the balance Below, with her sisters?_

_**Yeah. They're the most interesting ones down here, let me tell you.**_

_Tell me what? You already did._

_**…Anyway, I'll talk to Atropos. She **__**was**__** pretty annoyed, but she can't remember it now.**_

_And the agents did something… something like insubordination, wasn't it? Together? …Oh, __OW._

_**No, yeah, you're right, Michael! And **__**that**__** would be why Atropos was so... ahhh, **__**yeah.**__** Something like that. Can't remember what, but it was **__**something.**_

_Well, if the field agent's been compromised by a demon's taint, we have no use for him._

_**And if our boy's been lured into your goody-goodedness, he's got to go.**_

_So where are they?_

_**I've got mine's place of residence, thanks to some quick-thinking by the demon who spotted him.**_

_Oh, __excellent__. …Well. I'm sorry for the delay, again, but after Aniel—_

_**No, I get it. It's OK. I'm glad you put it off. I felt it too, Brother.**_

_Our family keeps shrinking. First Zaphiel, then Gabriel, and now…_

_**Yeah. It's a shame. I was looking forward to seeing her in battle, again.**_

_Our sister always was so Just._

_**Yeah. …But anyway, I'll send Atropos up after them. Even if she's forgotten, recording deaths is **__**her**__** area. When she finds out she's missed two, she will be completely **__**obsessed**__**, and her methods are always so **__**entertaining**__** to watch. Heh.**_

_All right. Don't make a habit of calling me like this, though, all right, Lucifer?_

_**Sure thing, Mike.**_

_Don't call me that._

_**Mike, Mike, **__**Mikey!**_

_…I'll see you December 21, 2012. Don't be late._

_**Wouldn't dream of it, Mikey.**_

_I'm looking forward to beating you into the ground._

_**Same here, doll-face. Bring your smitin' sword!**_

_I __will__. And you will learn that Father's will is __not__ to be questioned._

_**Oh, **__**don't**__** start in on an argument you can't win.**_

_I don't __lose__, Brother._

_**There's a first time for everything.**_

_But it won't be against you. I __will__ cast you down again, Lucifer._

_**Always Daddy's faithful smiter, aren't you?**_

_Father was right in his judgment, Brother. You went too far._

_**Did**__** I, Mike? Did I? I just asked—**_

_I am __not__ talking about this with you._

_**But we **__**don't**__** have to fight—**_

_Yes__, we __do__, Lucifer. You know why._

_**Because I have a mind of my own and don't just spit out Daddy's arguments?**_

_No. Because you disrespected His greatest Creation._

_ …__**Humans are **__**not**__** Dad's greatest—**_

_Good-bye, Lucifer. I will see you on That Day._

_**Well, Hell to you, too, Mike. I'll see you **__**rot**__** in it.**_

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,011, June-_

After driving twenty-three hours (with occasional breaks from the incessant Queen-flavored tunes filling the car) to New York City, departing by passenger ship and sailing across the sea in about a week, Aziraphale and Crowley had finally returned to England. After the Bentley was extricated from the cargo hold—not a scratch on it (that wasn't easily fixed), of course—they got in and sped towards London. An hour into the drive, their surroundings were beginning to look quite familiar and Aziraphale was smiling like a loon out at the people walking by. He turned to beam at Crowley.

"I'm so proud of you, my dear. You _must_ have missed home, after all. Why, you're even going the speed limit!" The demon raised an eyebrow at him and grinned. The angel blinked, then glared. "Oh, now _don't_ take it that way—I _know_ that look, you terrible—"

"Demon?" Crowley finished cockily, looking over his sunglasses at Aziraphale. The angel frowned at him. "But you just _had _to mention it, angel. I hadn't noticed!" Crowley's hand moved to the stick. "Thanks for reminding me." Aziraphale paled.

"Don't you _dare, _you—" Crowley shifted into gear, slamming his foot on the gas pedal and shooting down Oxford Street. He cackled as the angel shrieked.

"_Crowley! _You_ can't_ go one-hundred miles an hour down Oxford Street!" Crowley felt like his face was splitting from his grin.

"Why not? I went faster than this in 1990! You should've seen it, Zira! _I hit **one-twenty!**_" The wind from the window flattened back his hair and hit his teeth with London dust, Aziraphale was pinned into his seat from the speed and a little old lady was crossing the road in her wheelchair.

"This is_ insane_, you—" The angel cut himself off as, suddenly, the little old lady was on the other side of the street. Crowley compensated (for missing) by swerving around a taxi and jetting further down, fully enjoying (perhaps _too_ much) the exhilaration of coming within a credit-card's width of hitting the other cars [4]. Aziraphale's knuckles were white on the dashboard as they, at last, slid sideways into the parking spot just in front of a bookstore proclaiming "Biblical Blessings" in neat Copperprint script over the door. Crowley shut off the engine and found himself fighting not to laugh when he glanced at the angel. Aziraphale's blond hair was a rat's nest, windblown every which way, random strands sticking down in his face and curls poking up in odd places. If glares could cut, Crowley would be _newspaper shreddings_, by now. As it was, the demon just smiled charmingly, opened the door and got out.

He stepped right into the path of an oncoming double-decker bus, eyes going wide behind his sunglasses. A body made contact from the side closer to the car and Crowley winced, bracing for impact as his shoulderblades hit the ground, _hard_. His hands had instantly clutched at Aziraphale—the angel's elbow and the back of his neck, as it turned out—his mind working a mile-a-minute and making no sense, but it slowed when he realized there was no _squish_. There was no crunch, no painful discorporation, no dramatic end, and something wasn't right [5]. He glanced up, hand sliding down from Aziraphale's neck to his shoulder and staring for a moment at the bus frozen just beside them. Its front bumper was a centimeter from hitting the Bentley's open driver's-side door, and when he glanced down Crowley noticed Aziraphale's calf was close to being crushed by one of the front wheels. In the shock of the moment they'd gone utterly still, not even breathing [6]. The angel's face was buried in his stomach, his hands tensely palming the demon's hips, and Crowley fought a complicated sensation that Aziraphale'd really tried to_ protect_ him. But he had to ask, and drew in a breath just for that purpose.

"Was that—?"

"No." Aziraphale's voice was quiet, _too_ quiet, and when the angel raised his head he didn't look at Crowley right away, just peered off down the road, gaze intense in the way that meant he was searching for something. Crowley nodded, leaving him to it, and tried to tell his heart to calm down from the almost-discorporation, fingers absently scratching into the angel's shirt as he curled them. _Manchester_, but that was a close one. He peered warily up at the bus still frozen over them. _Something _had frozen time around them.

Both being of angel stock, they weren't affected, but the humans around them were. Crowley focused on those human faces, most oblivious and a few wearing varying degrees of horrified half-comprehension of the accident about to happen. The demon took a deep breath, causing Aziraphale to blink up at him, just realizing they were still pinned together. Crowley gave him a crooked grin and withdrew his hands, setting them on the pavement behind him and pushing himself up to a sitting position. Aziraphale slid off his lap, grasping onto the Bentley's door and pushing himself up. He offered a hand to Crowley, grey-blue eyes again scanning their surroundings. Crowley took it and heaved himself up, brushing the street-dust off his formerly-pristine suit and casting a look in the opposite direction.

"Well, isn't this a picture." Their eyes snapped to the source of that voice—a blond woman, with thick glasses set low on the bridge of her nose, a button-up white shirt with a grey sweatervest and a respectable matching grey tartan jacket. She looked like a librarian on a crusade for unpaid fines with that book held against her side as she walked towards them, her face stern and a small stubborn frown pulling at a corner of her mouth. Crowley fought the urge to gulp. Instead, he managed a weak grin, wiggling his fingers in greeting.

"Atropos. Hey." She glanced at Crowley, and Aziraphale watched her, his focused look giving way to confusion.

"Atropos? What are you doing here?" Atropos glanced at the angel, sizing him up.

"Personal reasons." She finally declared, narrowing her eyes at Crowley, now. He swallowed.

"Uh. What kind of personal reasons?" She stared at the demon, unblinking. It was eerie, and a little intimidating. He shuffled a step closer to Aziraphale.

"My own. I have a problem to resolve with you two." Crowley froze, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale kept his calm, smiling kindly at her.

"But why, my dear, if you don't mind us asking? …And may I say, I simply _adore_ your jacket." Atropos squinted a sideways glance at the angel, measuring, considering.

"…Thank you." She conceded somewhat stiffly, upon detecting no trace of sarcasm. Crowley grinned nervously as she glanced at him.

"Er, well. Ah. Thanks." He nodded his head back at the bus behind them. "Um." She narrowed her eyes.

"I didn't do this for _you_, demon. Lucifer mentioned something strange about the past." Aziraphale smiled at her, not mocking, not offensive.

"Forgive me, my dear, but I thought Lakhesis governed the past?" Atropos gazed at him silently.

"Deaths are in my jurisdiction. And here—" She flipped the book in her hand open to the gold-threaded tassel bookmark, running her finger down the neat lines. "—it is recorded that the Angel Aziraphale and the Demon Crowley were killed on the evening of Saturday, March 31, 1990." She peered back up at them, expression not malicious, but growing in anger. "So how is it you are standing here, before me? Your names are crossed out, _right here—" _Crowley saw her jab at the page, her eyes abruptly fevered and frustrated. He shrank back. "—so how are you _still alive_?" Aziraphale stepped forward, placating, voice gentle.

"Please calm down, dear lady, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this—" She completely barreled over the angel, her book snapping shut as she yelled at them.

"You two are _recorded_ to have _died_ that night! How are you still in existence? If your threads were cut you wouldn't even still _be_ in human corporations, and DEATH would have taken you to the other side, already! If this gets out I could lose my _job_, do you understand? God _gave_ me this job, and I am _good_ at it, and a discrepancy of twenty-one years could _ruin_ my credibility!" She was completely undone, and powerful, and _dangerous,_ and Crowley _didn't know what to do._ Aziraphale straightened in front of him, looking her straight in the eye, voice steady.

"Atropos, _please._ Let us explain." She fixed her gaze on him, lifting her hand, readying to snap her fingers.

"There is no explanation. You both need to die. _Now."_ The snap echoed and Crowley barely had time to think before the double-decker crashed into them from behind. He heard Aziraphale gasp beside him, and tried to reach out, but they were sucked under the wheels and Crowley heard a sickening _crunch_ as his shoulder and arm broke against the weight of the bus and its passengers. He coughed as the wheel went down his back, crushing his lung and felt a sharp burn as a rib punctured it, his vertebrae snapping. The demon wheezed, trying to shuffle out of the way of the back wheel but bumped into Aziraphale, who was silently tense beside him. The bus cleared them after crushing another few bones and organs and Crowley looked up at the sky, blinking blood out of his eyes in agony as pain radiated through his corporation.

_Any minute now. _He thought, fuzzily. _Any second it'll just __**end**__ and I'll be sucked back to Hell for a replacement, and—_

The seconds passed. Crowley and Aziraphale lay crumpled on the pavement, their bodies broken and bleeding and leaking and shattered, and they _still didn't die._ They'd been through both worse (slower) and better (faster) deaths than this, and intimately knew the limits of a human body after 6,000 years of dying. They _should_ be dead, not still writhing in agony in the middle of a street in London. The demon whimpered as Aziraphale coughed something, trying to shift, but the angel's damage seemed to be just as bad as his own, so it only came out as an incomprehensible, wet gurgle. Crowley managed to peer up where Atropos had been—she was still there, but the humans walking around them weren't reacting. Had they gone invisible? He could see the whites around Atropos' eyes, her forehead wrinkling. Then—

"_Sister! _What did you _do_?_"_ Atropos whirled around and stiffened in surprise, but Crowley couldn't see why. He felt like his brain should be shutting down, or he should be passing out, _anything_, really, was better than _this—_

"Clotho? But they—" Crowley jerked and then cut off a sharp cry of pain, and then there was movement, and a rosy, brunette face was above him, green eyes gentle. He caught sight of a distaff propped over her shoulder, and she uncurled a bit of thread from the spindle attached to it, motions hurried.

"I'm _so_ sorry I'm late—Atropos didn't mean it, really. Here, let me just—" Crowley gasped as she stabbed him in the heart, and tried to escape, to struggle. The thread-covered stake burned briefly as she drove it clear through his chest to the other side, and he coughed as she withdrew it. The pain blinked out of existence, completely. Gazing up at her in astonishment, he put a hand to his heart, and found no hole there. He pressed his crushed shoulder, then arm and found them both completely healed. He inhaled, and the lung was fixed, as well. She smiled at him, and moved on to Aziraphale. Once she no longer blocked his view, Crowley found himself staring up at a tight-lipped Atropos.

"_Clotho." _Her voice was sharp, and Crowley ventured a glance towards the youngest of the Three Fates, but Clotho ignored her sister. He noticed that her spindle bore no blood on it, and she quickly stabbed Aziraphale as she had him. He couldn't help but watch in horrible fascination as the angel stiffened in shock, then slumped forward, slightly. He looked at his hands (presumably they'd been broken?), and then peered up at her, face full of surprise. She smiled, and rested a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I _am_ the daughter of Necessity, you know." Clotho grinned, a little impish. "Seemed necessary."

"Clotho!" Atropos was fuming, by now, her glasses sliding down her nose as her fingers dug into her book. Clotho turned, short curly dark brown hair bouncing around her neck. She stood and faced the oldest Fate, stance wide and confident. Clotho's off-the-shoulder red tunic-top was patterned with large, bright-red daisies overlapping against a barely-seen white background. The shirt fell past her waist to partially cover her flowing knee-length red skirt. Just beneath the end of the distaff propped over her left shoulder, Crowley noted her socks were ankle-length and white, her shoes red Mary Janes (and then wanted to _stab_ himself for noticing).

"Atropos! What're you doing, trying to kill these two." Clotho glanced behind her at them and winked, before turning back to Atropos, putting her hands on her hips, leaning forward. Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other, bewildered. Clotho's tone was petulant. "They're _special."_ Atropos frowned at her.

"Special? I was not told of this." Clotho heaved a dramatic sigh, leaning her shoulders back and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Lucifer doesn't know. And do you really trust _his _word, Tropy?" Crowley guessed Clotho'd rolled her eyes (her tone _sounded _it, at least). Atropos frowned at her.

"Don't call me that while on duty. It's unprofessional." Clotho whined.

"Hey, don't be boring! I like your nickname." Atropos gave her a dry stare.

"You came up with it." Clotho giggled, and flounced over to her sister, dress fluttering and her distaff thumping against her back, spindle firmly clutched in her left hand to keep it from falling.

"I know!" Atropos frowned at her (it seemed to be her default expression, Crowley noted).

"So why are they special." Clotho smiled, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. (Even from here, Crowley could still hear it.)

"It's a _secret._ Lakeh said I can't say why." Clotho peered back at Crowley with another wink, and he felt cold. Atropos scowled.

"We need to talk."

"Then let's talk." It was a calm voice, and the two sisters blinked at something behind Aziraphale and Crowley. Slowly, they turned, and found themselves gazing up at the solemn, icy blue gaze of a goddess.

"_Lakhesis_." It was Aziraphale who breathed it. Her eyes turned to examine him, her copper hair pulled back gently from her face, a few wisps framing her forehead in soft waves. Her dress covered her feet and was reminiscent of a Greek toga, falling sleeveless off her shoulders and lined in gold around the edges. Her rod was golden, as well, held in her left hand as she gazed quietly at Aziraphale. Crowley felt an inexplicable urge to slide between them, but his heart jumped into his throat as she spoke, again.

"Angel Aziraphale." Aziraphale nodded, and her mouth curved up in a very slight smile. She reached out her hand, resting it on the angel's head. Crowley resisted the urge to snatch it off. Lakhesis _wasn't_ Atropos, she didn't cause someone's death, she chose their _destiny. _(Besides, she was a _Fate—_Crowley couldn't do anything against her even if he wanted to try.) Lakhesis' eyes pulled tiny lines at their corners, then, her smile falling. "I am sorry." Aziraphale blinked up at her, and she cast a glance towards Crowley. She smiled as he bristled, trying not to show fear.

"Sister?" Clear blue eyes flicked up to Atropos' hesitant comment, and Lakhesis removed her hand from Aziraphale, walking between the angel and demon, towards her sisters.

"Atropos. I'm sorry you were not informed."

"I tried to tell her, Lakeh! I really did! But she wouldn't—" A glance silenced Clotho. Judging by the fact Clotho didn't seem scared, Crowley guessed the look on Lakhesis' face had been kind, but firm. Lakhesis addressed Atropos, not bothering to speak loudly, but her quiet, serene voice caught them all.

"These two are Adam Young's." Atropos' eyes widened. Lakhesis nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry—I was not aware that Adam Young's actions had affected your records. I should have anticipated this. Will you forgive me?" Atropos didn't smile, but reached out her hand. Lakhesis took it. Crowley watched as Clotho glanced between them, biting her lip and bouncing nervously from foot to foot. Simultaneously, Atropos and Lakhesis offered her their free hands, and Clotho took them with a bright smile. Lakhesis continued speaking to Atropos, seeming to have forgotten Aziraphale and Crowley were listening in.

"Adam Young changed their destinies. They could not have done so, themselves, being limited as they are. He gave the Angel Aziraphale a body tailored to his Grace, and looked inside the Demon Crowley, melding his Essence to his body. They are no longer human, and so cannot die human deaths. The bodies you see have been joined irrevocably to their True Selves." Atropos' brow furrowed, and she sounded annoyed. Crowley didn't dare move, not even to glance at Aziraphale beside him.

"I had not known that. I was under the impression their bodies could be killed, and they sent, respectively, to Above and Below? Lucifer was clear about this fact. He said they did something horrible, and that he and Michael would administer punishment." Lakhesis glanced back at the two field agents only for a moment, her blue eyes ancient and knowing. (Crowley realized, chillingly, that she had _not_ forgotten he and Aziraphale were there.)

"Lucifer is deceived. He and Michael have both forgotten. A demon happened upon these two, and reported to Lucifer. This jogged Lucifer's memory, and made him realize that the Demon Crowley—his field agent who had been on Earth for nearly 6,000 years—had not been in contact since 1990. He concluded this meant _something_ had happened in 1990, even though he could not remember what. Lucifer had the demon track down the Demon Crowley's residence in England by human methods. The demon picked up traces of Grace at the Demon Crowley's residence and located the Angel Aziraphale's residence. The demon then contacted Lucifer, who told you these lies." Atropos went pale with rage.

"How _dare_ he meddle in our affairs! I am _not_ Lucifer's subordinate, we have been given our positions by _God Himself, _and only _He _might—" Crowley saw both Clotho and Lakhesis squeeze her hands, Clotho being the one to speak.

"Peace, Sister. His time will come." Atropos pursed her lips, quieting. Lakhesis continued, voice soft.

"Adam Young has stricken both the Demon Crowley and the Angel Aziraphale's names from the memory of Heaven and Hell, but could not erase Heaven and Hell's memories of their existence. They are under Adam Young's protection. They are his friends. Do you understand, now, Sister?" Atropos gazed at Lakhesis for a long moment. Both Crowley and Aziraphale had forgotten to breathe, some time ago.

"You know their destinies, Sister?" Crowley felt his throat close up as Lakhesis glanced back at the two field agents, once more. Her gaze was steady, somber and… pitying?

"Yes." Lakhesis whispered, her eyes flicking between Crowley and Aziraphale. She didn't turn back to her sisters.

"But it's not time for them to die, just yet!" Clotho piped up from behind Lakhesis' shoulder (_far_ too cheerfully, in Crowley's opinion).

"Forgive me, Sister. I was confused." Atropos added, solemnly. Her brown eyes zeroed in on Crowley, and he resisted the urge to shiver. After a moment, Atropos' gaze moved on to Aziraphale. "I see their true deaths, now." The demon remained perfectly still, not daring to show any weakness. Lakhesis gave Crowley another quiet smile.

"Fear not, Demon Crowley. Your destinies are woven into your threads. Not even I could alter them, now." Clotho grinned at both (former?) field agents, winking again.

"But the ends won't come for a while, so don't worry!" Atropos stared at Aziraphale, almost frowning.

"You should prepare yourselves." At that—appearances be bloody _hallowed—_Crowley snatched up Aziraphale's hand and the angel jumped in surprise, turning to blink at him. Because of this, Aziraphale missed Lakhesis' last, secret smile as the three sisters disappeared. Crowley slumped forward, practically boneless as the world restarted around them, the sounds of cars and humans chatting filling the silent void that had been there as the Fates discussed. The demon took in a shaky breath, finally looking up at Aziraphale with a faint smile and the angel returned it, uncertainly.

"Well. That was—" Crowley suddenly surged to his feet, waving a hasty sigil in the air [7] as he dragged Aziraphale along behind him, over the sidewalk and straight through the bookshop's front door. "Wait! What—" The demon's voice was harried and stressed (and a bit squeaky).

"I'm raiding your store for wine, angel!" Aziraphale loosed a helpless laugh, letting himself be dragged through the dustier-than-usual (since it _had_ been four years) shelves and Crowley felt a slightly-hysterical grin edging over his face.

"So long as you don't get it on the books, my dear!"

"I wouldn't waste it! 'sides, getting plastered is the best way to celebrate a home-coming!" Aziraphale's answering chuckle was just as breathless as before.

"Ah, I _knew_ you'd admit England was home, someday, Crowley!"

The demon blessed under his breath, but didn't complain as he was (quite expertly) thrust into a chair at the table of the store's back room. Aziraphale scurried over to the cabinets to unearth a pair of wine glasses [8], and Crowley waved his hand, making a quite surprised vintage appear out of thin air on the tabletop. The goblets made their way in front of each man-shaped being's evident and prospective seats (respectively), the demon popped the cork, the angel sat, and they _drank._

[4] He never made contact, of course. Even inanimate automobiles knew the consequences if they _dared_ to mar the Bentley's paint job. On a sidenote, they also had their own _drivers _to protect from the demonic Bentley seeming to get_ far_ too much glee over their hasty dodging. (The fiend's obviously inhuman driver notwithstanding.)

[5] Crowley's current body was from sometime in the 1960s (after he'd overdosed on some drug) and Aziraphale's was the same one Adam had given him in 1990 (which was much like the body he'd had before, actually, except—at least initially—the coat had been cleaner).

[6] Not that it was a habit, really, but even supernatural beings needed _breath_ in order to _talk._

[7] The Bentley's driver's-side door had been completely ripped off its hinges by the bus that'd tried to do them in, after all. Even despite their hasty retreat, this glaring sacrilege hadn't escaped Crowley's notice, and so was the first thing his frazzled mind managed to focus on and fix.

[8] What he _actually _found were some golden goblets from a few centuries back, but they'd do just as well.

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,011, June, A Few Days Later-_

Sadly, their hopes were dashed when Heaven and Hell sent out updates for the _new_ apocalypse.

( Not to mention that bothersome, ill-timed_ announcement_. It made Aziraphale drop a perfectly good cup of tea—and Crowley to momentarily panic, although he would deny it, later—as '_**All angels of brother Aniel's garrison are to report immediately to Zachariah's office,**_' and the like boomed into the angel's head_. _All it was, really, was Zachariah trying to eliminate any angels who might have sided with Aniel, should she reappear. She was an _Archangel_, after all, and had been quite popular with the lesser angels—_especially_ those in her garrison, because she had taken it upon herself to guide her brothers from the lower rank of major. It was quite a hierarchical hit, actually, because she could have simply given orders from On High as a general—which was what Uriel, Michael and Raphael did—but chose not to. She was not called Aniel the Just for only superficial reasons, _indeed._ )

Apparently, now the date was set for December 21, 2012 (and neither Heaven or Hell seemed to recall they were still alive and hearing the broadcasts, as they _still_ hadn't been disconnected). One night, over a serious discussion, Aziraphale brought up what Crowley had very firmly been Not Talking About.

"'ts _true, _m'dear! Lak—Lakerhasis's th' past one, righ'?" Crowley blinked blearily up at him from where his chin was shoved into the tabletop.

"Makess sssensssse. Hey, angel, lookit I kin do—" The angel burst out laughing, swinging his cup around.

"Don'—don' try t' d'stract me, ol' boyo!" Aziraphale giggled. "Boyo." Crowley suddenly burst into song, blasting at the top of his (apparently) inhuman lungs.

"Ssso you betta sssstops—you gotsss sse wrong 'em… _boyo!_ Yousss gotss sse wrong 'em, BOYO!" [9] The angel snorted into his glass, trying an unsteady glare at Crowley over the rim.

"Noooo, beb'p! Croooowleeee…" The demon snickered, grinning fuzzily up at him.

"'s righ', say m' name, angel." Aziraphale paused, swaying slightly as he stared at Crowley. [10] His eyes narrowed. The angel pointed with the hand holding his drink, sloshing most of it over the table.

"'s _b'bop, _'t is! No means no!" Crowley grinned and drank at the same time. It ended messily.

"Awwwsssss!" The angel slouched down into his arm, beaming at Crowley over the bump of his wrist.

"You're hissing, m'deary dear." The demon flicked his forked tongue pithily at him in response. Aziraphale's eyes went wide, staring at the space where it had been. "Oooooh…" Crowley smiled wide, showing fangs as he raised his glass in victory.

"I wins!" The angel huffed at him, thumping a loose fist on the table in defiance.

"Oohhhh, you _di'n't!"_

"You di'n'tss resssponds in sstime, sssso's I _winss."_ Aziraphale glared at him, unsteadily.

"Mistl'toe." Crowley stared for a moment, then blinked (very slowly).

"Wusssat?"

"Mistl'toes!" Aziraphale declared, pointing at Crowley with a waving finger. "You owe m' one, dear'st." The demon's face went sour.

"'ssss nots funny, sssSira." He paused. "sssssssSira." Brows knit. "I can'ss ssssay yer bloody sss—sse lettser ssats comesss firsst in your name._ Blessss!_" Aziraphale giggled, propping his chin on his arm and smiling sweetly at the demon.

"C'mooooon, silly snake. Mistl'toes!" Crowley groaned, letting his head drop back on the chair in a position no human could have managed and lived.

"I dun' waaaanna, you sssstupid sssacredss sssscheming sspoileds angel."

"But Crowleeeeeeeeee…" The whine made the demon wince, and he sighed, flopping back onto the table and scootching across it to where Aziraphale was. He flicked his tongue out, again, hitting the angel's nose, and Aziraphale giggled.

"'sssere. Happsy?" The angel gave him a radiant smile.

"Your tongue's so int'restin', m'dear. 's pretty." Crowley scowled at him, putting his hand to the angel's forehead and shoving him away.

"'ssss nots. Ssshuts it." Unfortunately, Aziraphale's flails caught his wrist and pulled Crowley down, as well. Aziraphale's chair rocked backwards with the added weight. The angel fell over with the chair-back digging into his spine, and rolled onto his side with a groan. The ends of the chair's legs caught Crowley in the jaw as he tumbled down after. [11] Aziraphale rubbed the back of his head and Crowley whimpered over his bruised jaw, but the angel mastered his pain, first.

"…shou'd we... sober up, dear'st?" The demon nodded, then winced again as the alcohol left his system. He straightened up, rotating his jaw to pop it back into place. Crowley glanced over the chair seat at the sprawled angel. He settled himself between the chair legs, and propped his elbow on the edge of the seat (which was sticking up, perpendicular to the floor), grinning a little as blue-grey eyes had a hard time focusing on him.

"Yeah, Zira. C'mon, dry out." The angel frowned at him (not understanding the expression, probably), but grimaced for a moment. Then Aziraphale sighed, opening clearer eyes and staring up at the ceiling. There were a few seconds of silence, and Crowley treasured them.

"Crowley." He looked at the angel again, but Aziraphale was still staring at the ceiling.

"Yeah?" The angel's eyes fell to his, Aziraphale's brow furrowing a little.

"Are we still what we were, do you think?" The corner of Crowley's mouth pulled in an awkward smile.

"What, angel and demon, you mean?" Aziraphale nodded. Crowley laughed a little.

"Don't know, really. But the powers still seem to be there, and if you think Lakhesis fixed things Above and Below for us—"

"I do." The angel stated, firmly. Crowley glanced back at him, but Aziraphale's eyes were on the ceiling, again. "I think… she can do anything she wants, really. It's not like anyone could stop her."

"Or her sisters." Crowley added with a snort, shaking his head. Aziraphale nodded.

"Yes. But, do you think… this one will be different?" Crowley frowned down at him.

"How so?" Aziraphale's eyes slid off to the side, thoughtful and distant.

"It's just… with Dean having made a Deal. You felt it in his soul, right?" Crowley's mouth tightened, and he looked off.

"Yeah. He's a righteous man."

"_The first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell."_ Aziraphale murmured the prophecy they both knew by heart, aloud. Crowley cringed.

"This time's gonna be so much worse, isn't it." The angel sighed, and sat up, smiling tiredly into Crowley's face.

"I'm afraid so. If the Fates are involved, as well as Lucifer attempting the Sixty-Six Seals…" The demon gave him a brittle grin.

"Guess our hobby's turning into an obsession, isn't it?" Aziraphale smiled at him, but it was a bit softer than before. The angel lifted his hand, resting his fingers over Crowley's propped arm.

"At least we're going into it together, my dear." Crowley watched the fingers on his skin for a moment—_his_ skin, not just another corporation that would die, thanks to what Adam had done, so many years ago. "It's all right, isn't it?" Aziraphale's sudden comment startled him out of his thoughts, and he stared up at the angel, eyes wide.

"Uh, what?" Aziraphale canted his head, looking at him closely.

"You're all right, aren't you? Knowing that our deaths are part of a plan?" Crowley glanced off.

"I don't know, angel. The Fates have always been a few cards short of a deck, in my opinion. Just because Atropos says she knows how we die, just because Clotho says it's not for a while, just because Lakhesis says it's our 'destiny'…" The demon snorted to himself. "It doesn't mean it has to happen that way, right? The world could've ended in 1990 with Adam—it was _supposed_ to, but it _didn't._ Why should this time be different than any of the others?" Crowley felt warm fingers curl over his arm, squeezing soothingly.

"I think Michael and Lucifer are getting impatient." Aziraphale said this very softly, and Crowley didn't jerk, didn't react, didn't pull away, didn't look back at the angel. He just grasped Aziraphale's hand with his other one, pressing it against his arm and holding it there.

"Seems like." The angel leaned his temple against the back of Crowley's hand, and the demon chanced a peek at him, but could only see short waves of blond hair. Crowley shook his head, allowing his pinned fingers to grip Aziraphale's hand on his arm a little tighter.

"We'll be all right. You'll see." Crowley huffed a grim chuckle, to that, trying not to think too far ahead.

"Sure, angel." He didn't call Aziraphale on the lie.

[9] An attempt by Crowley to sing The Clash's "Wrong 'em Boyo".

[10] Aziraphale actually vaguely recognizing a post-1950s music reference—that is, "Say My Name" by Destiny's Child.

[11] Just like Jack and Jill, apparently.

[ The author recommends the reader look up the lyrics to the 1991 song "Saturday's Angels" by the UK band If (Missing Armstrong's 2012 version is good), the 2003 "Saturday Night Song" by Everyday Victory, and the 2008 song "Saturday" by the Welsh band Kids In Glass Houses. (The last two songs sound like flash bastards, but the first rocks for angels.) ]

~END CHAPTER EIGHT~


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 9/24

Word Count: 11,200

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Serpent of Eden, Lilith, Sam Winchester, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Bobby Singer, Dean Winchester, Castiel

Warning(s): Time paradoxes, allusions to sex, language, mentions of violence, chronic houseplant abuse (not appropriate for seeds that haven't yet sprouted), mild blackmail, certain laws of physics defied, piling footnotes.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, September 7, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_1 Corinthians 9:07 _

_Who serves as a soldier at his own expense? Who plants a vineyard without eating any of its fruit? Or who tends a flock without getting some of the milk? _

: : :

Hell was an experience any angel could gladly go without. The scenes and specific tortures of such a place can only be comprehended by those not bound by a mortal coil, as typically only demons, Fallen or angels glimpse these places. It is the same with Heaven. When humans are called up, in death, they are relegated to a very personalized area of Heaven, which is tailored to accommodate their limited perceptions. After a certain amount of time, of course, humans become used to Heaven and eventually cannot remember the differences between it and Earth. Still, they can never grow to the same level of familiarity with Heaven that angels have. Heaven, for humans, is a re-hashing of their memories of Earth, and so every individual human's Heaven is different, but inexorably Earth-based in its interpretation. For angels, Heaven simply _is. _It is their home.

For an angel, finding one soul in Hell—where every demon shrieks at you and every tortured soul throws itself in your path, craving divine destruction as an alternative to more torment—is no easy task. The higher levels of Hell—those closer to the Earth, called the Upper Layers—are reserved for damned human souls and the torture thereof. The Lower Layers of Hell are home to the Courts, Bureaucracy and Nobility, and below the Final Gate lies the Sea of Ice, sprawling out as the 'floor' of a huge cavern. Here is where Lucifer's True Form resides, trapped in the ice and unable to break free. Other Fallen's True Forms lie scattered around him, but (as the ice was crafted by God to only contain these former angels' True Forms) the Essences of the Fallen have torn themselves from these angelic prisons and now occupy the Lower Levels of Hell. They carry out Lucifer's bidding and, essentially, _run_ Hell. The Fallen are still powerful beings, but with their True Forms frozen in ice, they manipulate their Essence in order to manifest in various different shapes (some of which are quite grotesque). This difference in appearance among the denizens of Hell is a stark contrast to the wholesome homogenity of Heaven and its angels. [1] Lucifer's spirit remains trapped in his True Form in the ice, as God created a cage to keep Lucifer's spirit inside his True Form (not long after Lilith died, and was officially judged to be too corrupt for Heaven). The only way Lucifer's spirit can be freed from his True Form is if the cage surrounding him is opened. To open it, one must break Sixty-Six Seals of Six-Hundred possible Seals. The first Seal is a Righteous Man shedding blood in Hell. The last seal is the first demon—the Essence-death of Lilith, the first human soul to become a demon in Hell.

In Judaism, the legends go that Lilith was Adam's first wife, created from the dust of the Earth at the same time as Adam. A lesser-known addendum to this tale insists that Satan was the one to turn Lilith's mind to rebellion. In fact, the exchange went more along the lines of a careful thought planted into her head.

_Sssso you are Woman?_

"Yes. Adam is Man, and I am Woman."

_Ssat'ss nisssse. Equalssss, ssen?_

"Of course. We both came from the earth."

_Sssstrange…_

"What is?"

_Ssurely you know, ssats to lie with Adam, you mussst be beneass him?_

"Why would you say that? Adam would never be so mean to me."

_Perhapsss nots. You're a ssssmarts Woman, yesss?_

"I am the only one, so I must be. Why do you ask?"

_Becaussse I don'ts wantss stoo ssse you unhappsy. It iss only sse Sssixss Day._ [2]

"What is a Day?"

_It iss when Lights comesss. Ssere have been sssix timesss sse Lights hasss lits sse world._

"Oh, that sounds so _pretty!_ I've never seen it. When is it?"

_When sse sky darkenss, you will lie down and ssleeps. When you nexsssst open your eyess, you will ssssee sse Lights._

"What's sleep?"

_Its will comesss stoo you afster Adam hasss lain wiss you._

"I see. …You said this before. What does it mean?"

_Itsss meanss you, as Woman, will be pressssed instoo sse dussst from which you came as Adam claimss you as his matesss._

"Why do you say things like that! Adam and I were made the same. He would never be so unfair."

_Sssso you canss believe, if you likesss._

"I will. Who are you, anyway? I know Adam has been busy giving out names to things, but I've forgotten yours."

_I am jussst a humble sserpents, doing my Lord'ssss works._

"Oh, so you are just like me and Adam! Would you like stay for a bit?"

_No sssanks. I'd besssst be on my way._

"Where are you going?"

_Home. Need stoo reportss ssat I've ssstalked stoo you._

"Well, good-bye, then. Tell the Lord I said hello, please?"

_Sssssertainly. He'll be gladss stoo hear itsss._

And so, when Adam wished to lie with Lilith on the Evening of the Sixth Night, she resisted him. [3] Adam and Lilith fought, but Lilith did not submit, and fled. Adam prayed to God—informing him that the Woman God had given him had run away—and so three angels were sent to bring Lilith back. God told Adam that if Lilith returned all would be well, but if she would not, that she must accept that one-hundred of her children would die every day. The angels caught up to Lilith near the sea which Moses would someday part, told her God's message and when she refused, threatened to drown her. Still, Lilith would not return. Bitter, she told the angels that she was meant to cause sickness to infants, and accepted God's terms that one-hundred of her children would die every day. The angels pleaded that she return (for they did not like to think of such suffering), but Lilith promised that if she saw one of the three angels' names on an amulet, she would pass over the child wearing it. And so, Jews give protective amulets to their children with the names of these three angels, so that Lilith might remember her oath and withdraw the sickness from those children.

A Second Wife was created for Adam on the Eighth Day (after Lilith left), but he did not want her. God had created this Second Wife before his very eyes (first skeleton, then organs, then flesh), and in her all Adam could see was 'blood and secretions'. After the Second Wife was allowed to leave Eden, God gave sleep to Adam and created Eve from Adam's rib. When Adam woke, he embraced Eve and took her as his own. She was much softer then Lilith, not nearly as confident, and_ tractable_. That Day God also created the Garden of Eden, in which they could live together in Paradise, forever. (Or, at least, until that same Serpent put another idea into _Eve's_ head.) [4]

The Serpent (later of Eden) always remembered his role in causing Lilith's damnation. Lucifer had charged him with corrupting a human (as he could not escape from the Final Layer of Hell), to prove the Morningstar's point that humans were flawed. God had been angered at Lilith's corruption, and had erected a barrier between Hell and Earth, so Fallen could not easily travel there. The Serpent had narrowly escaped punishment, with Lilith, as Lilith claimed it was her own decision not to return and to take up the path of evil. To note an important detail, the Serpent was on Earth when God put up the barrier. As such, the Serpent unofficially became Hell's Field Agent (as no one had yet figured out a way around the barrier). Later (after the First Offense) the Serpent would officially be delegated this position.

But, with Lilith, the Serpent hadn't _cared_ if she'd defied God. He had doubted God would punish his pets—humans—so badly as Lucifer, and when the assignment came up, he quickly volunteered, eager to (get out of Hell and) see what would happen if humans disobeyed. When it was obvious that corrupt humans were to be sent to Hell (as Lilith's fate was realized as soon as she died), the Serpent felt the first small nigglings of guilt in the back of his mind. His temptation of Eve had been rather less enthusiastic, the Serpent wanting on some subconscious level to spare her and Adam God's Wrath (even while the louder, more spiteful, aggressive demonic part of him shaped by Hell howled for more pain). Unlike Lilith, Eve had just been so _docile._ Eve had taken his suggestion as permission to disobey, while Lilith had already thought she and Adam were equals. Lilith's rebellion was bold, and afterwards Lilith had only blamed herself for thinking Adam had thought of her as an equal (she also blamed Adam, naturally, for being a chauvinist jerk). Eve's rebellion was quiet (but still just as prideful as Lilith's, even though everyone refused to see it and wrote it off as curiosity), and afterwards Eve had shoved off all blame onto the unfortunate Serpent. The Serpent didn't like Eve—and Lilith had changed, after coming to Hell, but she was still _Lilith_—and at least Lilith hadn't cried crocodile tears that it was the Serpent's fault she was doomed.

Lilith had taken disturbingly well to living in Hell, and it made her innocent in a strange way, younger than she had never been. Having never lain with Adam (or any man), Lilith was childlike, but cruel, selfish, proud and irreverent. She held a friendly relationship with the Serpent, smiling toothily at him the first time she'd seen him in Hell. Lilith had waved, her hands red with the entrails of a soul she was tearing apart—Alastair, he would later be called—and voice filled with childish glee. Lilith enjoyed the Serpent's company, and as a Fallen he did not fear her—almost respected her, and even indulged her, at times (he also certainly appreciated that Lilith hadn't blamed _him_ for her damnation). But Lilith soon grew a fanatic devotion to Lucifer, and after Eden (when the Serpent began to spend more time on Earth and less in Hell), he did not see her as much. The last time the Serpent had visited Hell, Lilith had had a whole slew of demons fawning over her. There was Alastair (Lilith's head torturer), Ruby (her operative), Azazel (her plotter) and Azazel's Hell-damned children, Meg and Tom (who helped carry out their father's schemes).

To understand the amount of effort the angels had to exert in order to reach the Righteous Man, one must have a comprehensive view of the Layers of the world. Lucifer is at the Bottom of Hell, and God sits On High in Heaven. Below God are the Angelic Layers of Heaven, where angels meet and may or may not choose to manifest or simply exist as wavelengths of celestial intent. Between each Layer (be it in Heaven, on Earth or in Hell), there are gates to check those who travel across Layers (such as DEATH or the Fates). Beneath the Angelic Layers of Heaven are the Earthly Layers of Heaven, where humans reside. Beneath the Earthly Layers lies the Aether (the Cloud Layer), which is the division between the Heavenly Dimension and the Earthly Dimension, as it has qualities of both. Beneath the Aether is Heavenly Limbo, where human souls await judgment. Heavenly Limbo is part of the Earthly Dimension, and beneath it is Earth. Hellish Limbo (which is also part of the Earthly Dimension, and where inhuman souls are trapped forever, doomed to prey on each other for eternity) lies under Earth. [5] Beneath Hellish Limbo is the Aether's counterpart, Chaos (the Magma Layer). Chaos is the division between the Earthly Dimension and the Hellish Dimension. [6]

[1] It is also painful for Unfallen angels to behold, as their forms have been given to them by God, while the Fallen must manipulate their tattered Grace to be able to manifest at all. This shape-changing ability is a constant reminder of the angelic form they have lost, and which eternally sits in the ice beside Lucifer.

[2] The discerning reader might note that there is a discrepancy in time, here. Said reader may feel the need to point out that Lucifer and his Fallen were Cast Down on the Tenth Day, not the Sixth. This is true. How then, this detail-oriented reader might ask, could the Serpent even _exist_ to tempt Lilith on the Sixth Day, if he were still an angel and not Fallen, yet? The actual explanation is long-winded, involves time paradoxes and is needlessly complicated—but here it is, anyway:

Lucifer and his Fallen were Cast Down on the Tenth Day. Lilith (known in the first path of time as Eve, but _not_ the Eve who would take a bite of bad apple) was Woman, then. Angered at being Cast Down, Lucifer sought to corrupt her and separate her from Adam (so Adam would be alone), and so (what with Lucifer having been an Archangel and therefore still powerful enough to manage time-travel despite being Fallen) sent the Serpent back to the Sixth Day to corrupt her. The Serpent only refered to Lucifer as 'Lord', and Lilith (as 'the Lord Satan' did not yet exist, since Lucifer hadn't Fallen by the Sixth Day) assumed the Serpent meant 'the Lord God'. An idea was planted in her head, and she was corrupted.

This provided two very different paths of time: the original path where Lilith did not refuse Adam, and the new path where she did. Lucifer was sneaky, as he knew the rules of time and that what has been done in the past cannot be _un_done. This meant, of course, that what is _not_ done the first time around can be changed by something having _been_ done the second time around_._ God could not change Lilith's corruption as the world tilted to all the after-effects of this being done, and so was forced to concede Lucifer the point.

God did, however, _also_ do some things that hadn't been done in the first path: he renamed the first Eve 'Lilith', created a Second Wife and then also she who would forever after be known as 'Eve'. As such, God accepted the new path the future had taken, Lucifer got in his petty jibe at humanity (as well as a first demon and the reputation of being able to corrupt humanity to such an extent that_ humans_ could be damned, as well), Adam was not alone, and the Serpent really _did _cause a heck of a lot of trouble.

[3] From an English translation of the Alphabet of Ben Sira:

Lilith said 'I will not lie below,' and Adam said, 'I will not lie beneath you, but only on top. For you are fit only to be in the bottom position, while I am to be the superior one.' Lilith responded, 'We are equal to each other inasmuch as we were both created from the earth.'

[4] This story is paraphrased from Wikipedia's page on the Alphabet of Sirach.

[5] For the sake of clarity, "Heavenly Limbo" is often what humans refer to simply as "Limbo" while "Hellish Limbo" more closely resembles the human concept of "Purgatory". Only certain 'undecided' human souls may enter Limbo, and only the souls of monsters may enter Purgatory. (It is rumored there exists a way to open a door to each Limbo, but—as it has never been definitively proven—this remains only a legend.)

[6] A visually-easier-to-understand depiction of the Layers, including the Gates in-between.

**Holy Throne (God)**

_*High Gate*_

**Angelic Layers of Heaven** (For angels and the organization thereof)

_*Angelic Gates*_

**Earthly Layers of Heaven **(Seven Heavens and New Jerusalem)

_*Earthly Gates*_

**The Aether (Cloud Layer)**;Division between Heavenly Dimension and Earthly Dimension

_*Aether Gates*_

**Heavenly Limbo (Limbo)**

**Earth**

**Hellish Limbo (Purgatory)**

_*Chaos Gates*_

**Chaos (Magma Layer)**;Division between Earthly Dimension and Hellish Dimension

_*Upper Gates*_

**Upper Layers of Hell** (Nine Circles and the Lake of Fire)

_*Lower Gates*_

**Lower Layers of Hell** (For Hell's Nobility, Bureaucracy and Courts)

_*Final Gate*_

**Tartarus, the Sea of Ice (Lucifer)**

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,011-_

Sam disappointed a lot of people at the end of August. He disappointed Jess by not showing up at Stanford for his second semester. He disappointed Bobby by not calling to tell him where he was going. All that mattered was that he found a way to bring back Dean's soul. The chances were slim, but Sam knew the tricks, knew how to make demons talk. He'd get it back. That was why he hadn't allowed Bobby to burn Dean's body, after he was dead. Sam knew Dean'd need it when he got back.

Dean was his _brother,_ his only surviving blood-and-flesh _family_, and that _counted_ for something. Sam couldn't just let this lie. Late in 2010 they'd Summoned Crowley and trapped him, but the bastard had just called out his hellhound and they'd been forced to let him go. Crowley had suggested, if they wanted to get on his good side, that they search out the demon called Lilith and try to stop her plans. Sam had asked if he was still working with that angel, but Crowley'd only smirked at him and said it wasn't healthy to hold grudges.

It didn't help that Dean was so blasé about going to Hell. It was like he didn't even want to _try_, so Sam and Bobby had to work _twice_ as hard to convince him that they could find a way to save him. But Dean just didn't care. He and the Impala would disappear for days on end (or so Bobby and Jody told him), returning with a big grin and an even bigger collection of tall tales about his exploits while gone. Jody just straight-up told him it wasn't acceptable, but Dean brushed her off. Bobby tried to get through to him, but it was like Dean didn't _want_ to hear. Sam—well, Sam just researched on his own while away at college, trying to find _something_ that could save Dean from the Pit. He wasn't having much luck, although Crowley'd shown up a few times in his dorm (late at night, when everyone else was out partying) during the 2011 spring semester. He seemed to be trying to convince Sam there was something more at work here, but Sam just couldn't bring himself to trust the demon who'd bought his brother's _soul_ and who was working with the _angel_ that'd tried to kill Jess. Crowley had said there _wasn't_ a way to save Dean, and that Sam should just accept it.

Like Sam would trust _Crowley's_ word_._ Demons were liars, all of 'em, and Crowley was probably just trying to make him give up. The spring semester passed quickly, leading into summer and Dean picked him up at Stanford with Bobby's van and a laughing grin. Sam felt a pang. He couldn't imagine life without his big brother—Dean had been _there_, always _there_ and sometimes his stories about Dad made Sam feel like the man was still alive. He didn't blame John for taking off and leaving him behind with Missouri—it made perfect sense. Their mom had been _killed_ by a_ demon_. Sam wouldn't listen to Bobby's interjections that he'd checked the scene, and there was not a trace of sulfur anywhere—it'd been a _fire_, so of course there'd be no evidence! Bobby'd just called it a burglary gone bad. But then where had the fire come from? What kind of burglar was an arsonist, too? It seemed a little too cruel, even by human criminal standards. Sam'd pulled out Dad's old journal, flipping through the newspaper clippings of other kids whose moms had died in fires when they were six months old. Sometimes they were so close together, it just _couldn't_ be a random attack. Dad had been right—there was a pattern.

This wouldn't have mattered to Sam, before his and Jess' accident. Mom had died a long time ago, and Sam had never really known her. He couldn't relate to Dean's ferocious defense of her because he'd never known the woman, even though he loved her (if distantly), as a son should. But that event hadn't mattered only _before_ an angel had tried to kill him and Jess. Why would an angel do that? Every time they'd run into angels—real angels, not like the ghost of that pastor in Providence, Rhode Island—they'd never tried to actually _kill_ people. So what made this angel different? Why Sam, why Jess? Why an _archangel_, even? Sam didn't know where it came from, but he'd always had faith in something bigger. He'd always believed in God, and angels. Missouri had taken him to church as a child, and when he'd moved to Sioux Falls Jody had continued the tradition (it was something the _same_, which Sam remembered vividly as being a big comfort to his four-year-old self). Sam knew God existed, and despite Bobby and Dean's skepticism, prayed every night. There was God, and there was free will, and Sam _knew_ the two conflicted in humans—did it conflict in angels, too? Had God sent an archangel down to kill him? But, no, that didn't make sense—the archangel had been working with Crowley, hadn't he? Would God condone such a thing? But an angel going against God—how would that work? Wouldn't that angel be Cast Down, like Lucifer? How could the archangel be an archangel, anymore, if he was going against God's Plan?

Sam couldn't stop thinking about it, so when the end of August rolled around and Dean disappeared (he even left the Impala behind)—probably to make sure Bobby or Sam didn't do anything _stupid_ trying to save him last-minute)—it was the impetus Sam needed to do the same. The archangel issue was something _bothering_ him in the back of his mind (like a termite on wood), and maybe if he could find out what had happened to make an angel want to kill him, he could find a way to bring Dean back from the Pit. Maybe he could bargain with the angel, even. Did angels do that? Just a year ago Sam would've thought angels didn't Deal (not like demons), but maybe he was wrong. Either way, Sam needed to find this out for himself. Bobby and Jody would just be distractions. No matter how long or what it took, Sam _would_ get answers and he _would_ bring Dean back.

All personal missions involving archangels aside, life just didn't seem _right_ without Dean around to annoy him.

_-Anno Domini, 2,011, June-_

_"Hello, Jesse? This is Aziraphale. We've just received word that the apocalypse is scheduled for December 21, 2012. Dear lad—__**do**__ call me back, won't you? Crowley and I are very worried. Please take the __**utmost **__care."_

On a suburban sidewalk in Alliance, Nebraska—just beside a mailbox, actually—a stylish man in black appears. Those walking by don't notice him, and those who catch a glimpse quickly forget and look away, going back to what they were doing. The man—sunglasses hiding his eyes, but that's not odd, as the Nebraska sun's _hot_—carefully surveys the ordinary two-story house before him. He walks up to the porch and quietly lets himself in, and his mouth tightens as he realizes the inside is completely _empty._ There is no furniture and no signs of wear. No signs of the family who'd lived here. The man pivots on his heel and heads upstairs. He can sense that there are no humans inside, so he doesn't bother trying to call out. He keeps his senses alert, a forked tongue slipping out of his mouth in an unconscious flick, to better scent the air. No signs of demons or angels. No scent of sulfur or something vaguely pleasant.

Crowley turns, and quickly heads back down the stairs, something in the back of his mind telling him to _go_. He's hardly a step outside the front door when he disappears.

He reappears in the back room of Aziraphale's book shop, the smell from the burnt match wafting towards him. Aziraphale rushes forward to hug him and Crowley grunts, bearing it and patting the angel's back awkwardly. After Aziraphale called the Turner house and no one picked up, they agreed that Crowley be the one to teleport over. Crowley pointed out that something might be lying in wait for them, so they set up a small window of time where Crowley could investigate. After this time period expired, Aziraphale would Summon Crowley back to London, just in case the demon had been trapped and could not do so, himself. If Crowley didn't return after the Summoning, Aziraphale would teleport over and try to find him.

Thankfully, it hadn't come to that. (Aziraphale did _so_ dislike traveling by teleportation, after all. [7])

So, it seemed that Jesse Turner was no longer living in Alliance, Nebraska. There was no trace of him or his parents, and so Aziraphale penned a letter to Adam Young. Both Crowley and Aziraphale had tried not to bother him, over the years, but given the situation and unknown whereabouts of Jesse, now they weren't left with much choice. This letter told Adam of the new apocalypse, but stressed they were _not_ asking for his help (as both knew Adam was trying to live a _normal_ life, after the Nopocalypse of 1990). In actuality, this letter was merely a request that Adam keep a weather eye on the world on December 21, 2012, and perhaps intervene if the situation seemed to be getting out of control. Aziraphale emphasized that he and Crowley would do their best to stop it (as they had, for the past three apocalypses), and respectfully required no response from Adam, but that they would both rest easier knowing there was a back-up plan on which they could depend.

They _did_ hear nothing from Adam, and after a few days the thought of including him left their minds, entirely. (Perhaps not completely _willingly,_ but then there was Adam's response, wasn't it?) Crowley also convinced Aziraphale not to _dare_ mention what the Fates had said. Both he and Crowley were a bit discomfited with the notion of Adam 'messing about' with them and, in this, Aziraphale went with Crowley's very reasonable bid not to call attention to themselves more than strictly necessary. After all, Adam had a tendency to _think_ things into existence.

Also having realized that Michael and Lucifer were decidedly _not_ happy with Aziraphale and Crowley (respectively), they both quite preferred the current corporation-tied-to-Grace-or-Essence state-of-affairs. It meant they could not die human deaths and thus_ not _be irrefutably jerked either Above or Below for a court marshal. Heaven and Hell hadn't found them in all these years just because their superiors were _incompetent_, after all. Part of it was due to Adam. Part of it was due to the Enochian sigils carved into their ribs. Part of it was Crowley's paranoia. But in the end, it all came down to the fact that they'd spent 6,000 blasted bloody _wonderful _years on this ruddy planet and if they didn't _want_ to be found by certain unearthly entities, they _wouldn't _be_._

[7] Aziraphale had been averse to teleportation ever since sometime in the 3990s (B.C.) when he got distracted part-way through and half of him ended up in a ditch outside his hut. (It wasn't so much a discorporation as an embarrassment quickly remedied.) Later, Aziraphale had been _very_ glad he hadn't known Crowley in those days, as he would learn that _that _particular level of absent-mindedness tended to provide material for millennia-long teasing. As far as Crowley knew, Aziraphale simply _preferred_ human methods of travelling because they were more _refined_ and that was the end of it. As a result, Aziraphale's chief praises for human transport tended to be that using them was not _nearly_ so taxing (on his Grace or his wings), required little to no _actual_ concentration to get where he was going, and often provided him with _hours _of uninterrupted reading time. [8]

[8] Should Aziraphale _also_ be on their flight(, or train, or bus, or ferry), no child _ever_ felt the urge to cry or misbehave or otherwise make noise in any way. In fact, most of them had the rather powerful-but-quiet urge to beg their parents to read to them, but this only occurred in those who could not read yet, themselves. In the slightly older children, this sudden zeal for literature often amazed their parents, who inwardly rejoiced in believing their child had finally learned to travel _well_. On the next trip, however, these children were often unholy terrors (perhaps to make up for the unconscious angelic 'smothering' of their less-than-heavenly urges on the last trip). By the third trip, however, these children would often reclaim their more natural (non-extreme) tendencies, and their parents would throw up their hands in despair and simply accept they could _never _know how their child would act on _any_ given trip.

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,011, December 24-_

Crowley—sunglasses pushed up on his head, holding back his fringe—eyed the meticulously-wrapped festive parcel sitting on his countertop with a mix of trepidation and disgust. It was reasonably small and rounded, the plain white tissue paper tied with a sprig of holly. Beside it sat a poinsettia, bright red leaves perky and happy. Crowley narrowed his eyes at it. He hated poinsettias. The demon had an aversion to flower-like plants in general, actually, but _poinsettias _were so _picky_, requiring specific temperatures and a whole two months of dark (uninterrupted) nights to reflower. They usually weren't worth the trouble, but—well, maybe this one could _learn. _Maybe if it was properly terrified, it would bloom year-round. Crowley grinned to himself and picked the poinsettia up. He carried it out into the living room, murmuring silibantly into the red and green leaves.

"Now _listen_, you. This place isn't like what you came from. It's not some old lady's flat where you can relax and let your leaves _wilt_ and lose color after a few weeks. This is a battlefield. Those who are too weak don't cut it. So if you want to survive_—compete._" He set it on the coffee table amidst a few other plants which required indirect sunlight and straightened, glaring down at it with his hands on his hips.

The poinsettia quivered, and Crowley narrowed his eyes, flicking them to the jade plant on its right side. The jade's heavy limbs popped out a few new buds, the rest of its leaves flashing a beautifully emerald, perfect shade. Not to be outdone, the spider plant on the other side of the poinsettia grew another six centimeters in length, its lowest-hanging tendrils now almost reaching the floor, and Crowley smirked at it. The poinsettia's leaves stiffened, fanning upward (with a slight trembling, for the effort) and abruptly glowed more brilliantly crimson. He grinned down at the poinsettia, manifesting his fangs for good measure.

"I think you'll fit in just _fine _around here." Crowley turned, then, adopting a dismissive tone as he walked away, waving a hand, carelessly. "If not, expect a short lifespan." At the fresh wave of terror behind him, he smirked to himself, satisfied, and returned to the kitchen.

Aziraphale would probably enjoy the Christmas pudding, even if Crowley didn't—_one_ thing that old lady downstairs was good for, at any rate. Apparently she'd been worried for him, these past four years. Upon Crowley's return, she had saved him a homemade pudding from the Stir-Up Sunday with her family, and had delivered it and the poinsettia herself—after braving the stairs on her sore hip, even—with a tender smile. Crowley _couldn't_ have refused the gifts, after that story—he could just imagine the look on Aziraphale's face if he did—and so accepted them awkwardly. She had tittered at him, engaging Crowley in mindless small talk—nevermind it was the most they'd spoken, ever—before he'd succeeded in prying himself away and carefully slamming the door shut in her face. He'd been mildly worried she'd try to invite herself in for tea, but thankfully it hadn't come to that.

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,011, December 24-_

Aziraphale enjoyed the holidays. For one, there was no chance of customers after Christmas (nevermind that as soon as December started he practically had to close up shop, so no thoughtless buyers would rush in last-minute and _dare_ try to offer him staggering amounts of money for whatever he had in stock—some things simply _had_ no earthly price, after all). For two (and there usually _weren't_ two), this year Crowley had actually given him a homemade Christmas pudding.

He stared at it—white tissue paper, holly sprig and all—before flatly asking the demon what he'd done to get it. Crowley had smirked at him and waved the accusation off, saying the old lady downstairs had given it to him. This had considerably surprised Aziraphale, who had only ever heard Crowley complain about her. He mentioned this fact, saying he couldn't possibly accept (since this was _her_ gift to Crowley, after all) and Crowley had scowled at him. The demon then jammed a thumb behind him (in the direction of the living room), asking if Aziraphale saw anything out of place. Aziraphale'd glanced over his shoulder, and blinked at the brilliant red poinsettia in the center of the coffee table.

"But, my dear—I thought you didn't _do_ flowers?" Crowley had grumbled, instead moving to rip the tissue paper off the pudding sitting innocently on the counter and rummaging through his drawers for a knife.

"'s not a flower."

"But its petals are—"

"Those are red _leaves_, angel."

"Leaves?"

"Yeah." A pause.

"Does that mean—"

"_No_, that does _not_ mean you are allowed to give me plants with colorful leaves. No."

"But surely—"

"_No." _Crowley violently cut a slice off the Christmas pudding, slapped it on a plate and shoved it into Aziraphale's hands, scowling but not looking at him, wrapping up the pudding to keep it fresh.

"But—" Crowley sighed dramatically, straightening and glaring at him. He turned the angel around by his shoulders and shoved him into the living room, forcing Aziraphale to either _walk_ or fall flat on his face. (The angel chose the former.) Aziraphale miracled himself a small fork and began to quietly eat his pudding in the tense silence as Crowley glared at the mantle over his fireplace, arms sprawled out over the armrest and the back of his side of the couch. Predictably, after a few minutes of Aziraphale nursing his pudding, Crowley broke first, snapping at him.

"Look, Zira, it's not like I don't _appreciate_ the thought—" Aziraphale hid a small smile with another bite as Crowley winced, slightly, at being coerced into admitting _gratitude_. "—but color's not my style." A wave of a hand indicated the white-and-chrome, stylish, minimalist décor of Crowley's living room. The only other-colored objects in the room were varying shades of green (which made the poinsettia's red leaves stand out all the more), Aziraphale and the demon himself. Crowley obviously felt the subject was closed (and so Aziraphale couldn't quite help himself).

"It looks quite festive in here, though." Crowley snapped his head around to glare at _him_, now, but Aziraphale only smiled (this time, so Crowley could see).

"_What._" The angel glanced at the quivering poinsettia to his left, sitting on the coffee table, and allowed himself to smile just a bit more fondly.

"The poinsettia, I mean. It's red and green. Very festive." Crowley stared at him for a moment, then slumped back onto his side of the couch, grumbling into his shirt collar and waving a hand in a 'shooing' motion, looking off towards the mantle, again.

"Yeah, yeah, _great_. Why don't _you _take it, then?" Aziraphale blinked.

"Don't you want it?" Crowley squinted at him.

"It's a bloody _poinsettia. _Why _would_ I?"

"Well, it was a gift, wasn't it?" Crowley ground his teeth.

"Not one that I _wanted." _Aziraphale cast him an amused glance.

"They wouldn't be called 'gifts' if you only got what you wanted, now would they?" Crowley peered at him, suspicious, and Aziraphale made sure to keep his smile patient but magnanimous. Crowley pointed at him.

"You. Are _not_ allowed to do that." Aziraphale coughed, hiding a smile into his hand.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, my dear." Crowley pointed at him more insistently, starting to grin despite himself.

"Like H-_Manchester _you don't." He huffed, his hand dropping as he shook his head. "I really don't care about it, angel. Take it if you want it." Crowley leaned his head back, then, propping it on the back of the couch, sunglasses shifting a little on his face. Aziraphale turned his gaze back to the poinsettia, watching it quietly. Its leaves shivered up at him, almost begging and the angel allowed himself a very small smile.

"Would you like that, dear? I'm afraid I'm not quite the green finger Crowley is, but if you don't mind a bit of dust—" The red leaves stretched towards him, entreating, and Aziraphale felt his resolve melt. "Oh, do you _really_ want to come home with me? You're such a sweet thing. I'd have to find a suitable place for you, of course, but—"

"Forget it." Aziraphale blinked, and glanced over at Crowley, who'd straightened up and was now glaring at the trembling poinsettia (was he—almost _pouting?_).

"Crowley?" The demon shook his head and stood, waving a hand as he headed back into the kitchen. Aziraphale rose, as well, following him.

"I said forget it. I changed my mind." Aziraphale hummed in thought, setting his empty plate on the counter.

"Is that so?" The angel wasn't very effective in nonverbally trying to ward off Crowley's cutting him another slice (but it could be said he _tried_, anyway), and by then Crowley'd already _cut_ it, so it would be horribly rude not to accept. Crowley grunted, shifting the second slice onto Aziraphale's plate and leaning back against the counter, hands curled over the edge on either side of his hips, watching the angel with a frown.

"Yeah." Crowley shrugged his shoulders, looking off. "Decided I might want to keep it around. See if it survives." Aziraphale smiled at him (not quite making to dig into his pudding, just yet).

"Certainly _not _in case the lovely elderly woman downstairs pays you another visit, of course?" Crowley peered at him, again, and Aziraphale kept his smile mild.

"_No."_ The demon said, very firmly, but he paused. Then winced. "Bless it, angel, you're not supposed to _do_ that!" Aziraphale chuckled, turning to head back into the living room with his second slice of Christmas pudding (and relishing a small surge of triumph).

"I hardly think _you're_ the one to be telling me what I should and shouldn't do, dearest." Crowley grumbled from behind him (but, by the sound of his voice, he was still _following_) and Aziraphale allowed himself a very small smirk.

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 3-_

It was late on a Tuesday morning, and even though Aziraphale hadn't seen Crowley since the new year it didn't seem out of place. _Certainly_, they'd grown used to each other's company, but—er, well, they might not have specific _jobs_ to perform, anymore, but six millennia worth of tempting-or-saving (pick your position) habits didn't go easily and—

_**Dean Winchester is Saved.**_

Aziraphale stumbled a little on his way into the shop, the bell tinkling atop the door making him wince (and thus, going instantly silent). The sudden reflexive grip on his paper cup-clad coffee made the flimsy plastic lid pop off, causing some to spill over the top and onto his perfectly manicured fingers. He hissed a pained inhale, but kept walking. Impatiently, the angel wished the burn away and transferred the coffee to his other hand (the one holding the bag of croissants), flapping his now-only-wet hand in the air. He remembered his books a moment into this, however, and quickly stopped, instead hurriedly licking the droplets off his hand even as he didn't break pace, at all. [9]

The coffee and bag of croissants—now forgotten—were placed absent-mindedly on the counter beside the cash register, and Aziraphale lifted the hinged part of the counter up and went straight for the door to the back room. He snatched up the landline on his wooden computer desk [10] and quickly dialed a number. He put the receiver to his ear, fingers worriedly drumming against the table as it rang.

_"Willis, FBI."_

"Robert!" A pause.

_"Azzy? What—"_

"Is Dean there?" Aziraphale burst out, unable to help himself. There was silence on the other end.

_"Azzy, you __**know **__Dean was—"_

"So he's _not_ returned yet, is what you're saying?"

_"Dean is __**dead**__. Now I don't '__**ppreciate**__—" _Aziraphale winced, his forehead wrinkling.

"There's no time for that, old boy! Dean will be home soon." Aziraphale hastily explained, upon realizing he hadn't exactly been clear. He seized Bobby's silence as permission to continue. "I mean, er. He's been _Saved. _Raised. From Perdition, that is." More silence. "_Oh,_ for—someone's gone in and snatched him from the Pit, is what I mean!"

_"Wait—Wait, so Dean's—?"_

"Yes! But this is _bigger_ than him, he—"

_"I don't care about that! Dean's really… he'll really be back?" _Aziraphale bit his lower lip, wanting to convey the seriousness of the situation, but—well. Dean _was _(essentially) Bobby's son. Bobby was a _father, _who'd lost his _son,_ who was coming back from the _dead,_ and… Aziraphale forced himself to calm down, just a bit, with a slow sigh.

"Yes, of course. We'll discuss this later, all right? Crowley and I shall head over immediately. Tell Sam—"

_"Sam ain't here."_

"Oh, of course, he must be at—"

_"He __**disappeared,**__ Azzy. Right after Dean got taken." _Aziraphale felt a lump gather in his throat.

"Oh—Oh, I'm so _sorry_, dear boy, if I'd known I—"

_"Don't matter. You guys fixin' to cross the Pond, again, then?" _Aziraphale nodded into the phone.

"Er, yes. Would you like for me to ask Crowley to locate Sam for you? I'll need to catch the next flight out of Heathrow, but—"

_"Wait, can't you just fly?" _Aziraphale frowned.

"But I am." There was a sigh from the other end.

"_**No**__,__ y'idjit. __**Fly. **__With your __**wings**__? I'n't that faster?" _Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

"I think you underestimate the effort it takes to make a trans-atlantic flight, my boy." Bobby snorted, and Aziraphale huffed. "Oh,_ hush_. You're as bad as Crowley. I'll see you sometime later today, shall I?"

_"Yeah, yeah, I'll pick you up at the airport, I guess."_

"Much obliged, Robert." Some ill-tempered muttering, to that.

_"Don't __**call**__ me that, Azzy. It's __**Bobby**__." _The angel sniffed.

"I don't see why it matters. 'Robert' is such a _respectable_—"

_"I __**hate**__ it, and so help me, if you call me that again I won't let you look through my books." _Aziraphale gasped.

"But!"

_"No buts! We clear?" _Aziraphale sighed. He couldn't quite believe he was being blackmailed by a human not less than _one one-twentieth_ of his age. (But, well—perhaps for the sake of _books._)

"Yes." There was an expectant pause. Aziraphale looked just a little put out. "_Bobby. _I'll see you tonight."

_"See you then. Enjoy your flight." _There might've been a bit of sarcasm to that last sentence, but Aziraphale didn't catch it, instead smiling happily into the receiver (mostly at being reminded of the _hours_ of quiet reading time he'd have to himself, despite being on a mission).

"_Thank_ you, I shall! Farewell, old boy."

Aziraphale hung up, and then dialed another number, leaving a quick message. [11] He then grabbed his coat, an old favorite book he hadn't had a chance to read in a while [12]—as well as a few other books that might just prove useful—and headed for the cash register. Upon seeing his discarded coffee and croissant-bag he hesitated, and tucked his [13] book into a pocket. [14] He scribbled a hasty note [15] and left it under the cooling coffee. He strode quickly to the door, taking a last glance behind him at the shop, and smiled sadly. It'd be a while before he could see the old place again, he was sure. Taking a slow, steadying breath, Aziraphale flicked off the lights and turned the quaint little framed sign in the door's window from 'Open' to 'Closed'. He then stepped out and locked the door before attempting to wave down a nearby taxi. [16]

[9] Which means that _yes_—this entire routine took place as he was striding from the front door of the shop to the cash register. (It might've appeared quite comedic, had any would-be customers been around to see it.)

[10] His mobile was, again, buried under a stack of books (and thus, quite out of mind).

[11] Since the Nopocalypse of 1990, Crowley had very clearly (and in simple terms) defined the concept of an ansaphone (or 'voicemail', as it was now called) to Aziraphale. Nowadays, the angel didn't waste any precious time yelling at the outoing message and instead patiently waited for the beep. (Crowley had explained that said 'beep' was rather like the radio-code of 'over', giving the go-ahead for the person calling to talk.)

[12] Which was, of course, the _perfect_ travel companion.

[13] rather large and unwieldy

[14] Defying a few laws of physics in the process.

[15] Crowley was _terrible_ at checking his voicemail, but Aziraphale knew that even if the demon missed his message, Crowley'd drop by the shop _eventually._

[16] Which succeeded only because every taxi driver in the greater London area had become intimately acquainted with a bad-quality cell phone photo of him, and (in addition to associating the fussy, bookish blond with _marvelous_ tips) had somehow gained a sixth sense for when he needed a ride. (Thankfully Aziraphale hadn't called ahead, or there might've been a bit of unfortunate bloodshed on the parts of the cabbies competing for his business.)

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,012, January 3-_

Dean woke up. That was the first strange thing. You didn't just _wake up_, in Hell. You were _always_ awake. There was no such thing as unconsciousness, because your body couldn't give out, since they were torturing your very_ soul. _So to wake up—to really _wake up_—could only mean something really, really bad was about to happen, if they didn't want you to see it coming.

Dean _wanted_ to see what was coming.

He opened his eyes, and saw darkness. He swallowed, shifting, but before he could make a move, a tremor went through the ground. Dean gasped as he was thrust up against the pine (his nose smushed against it identified it as such) ceiling above him, hands automatically bracing against sides of the same material. It was a coffin, he realized with a distant pulse of dread. The coffin was _moving_, though—up, down, Dean didn't know but could make a good guess. Maybe this was a new torture? Maybe Hell'd moved beyond the old-fashioned sickles and knives and hooks through flesh? The rumbling stopped, and the energy pushing Dean to the ceiling of the coffin blinked out, making him drop, his shoulderblades thudding against the bottom of the coffin. He lifted his hands to the ceiling and coughed, trying to clear his throat. His voice was hoarse and raspy.

"H-Hello? Hello? H-Help—" The top of the coffin was torn clean off—letting in sunny, bright sunshine—and Dean cried out, an arm flying up to protect his eyes from the sudden visual shock. Something grabbed onto his shirt and hoisted him out by it. Dean grunted in surprise and flailed, legs kicking but only connecting with what felt like metal, arms slapping blindly towards the source, eyes clenched shut since they couldn't handle this much light, so fast. His throat hurt, but he still tried to cry out, not managing anything much louder than a hiss. "Help! _Help!"_

"Dean Winchester. Calm down, or I will be forced to restrain you." The voice that spoke those words was impossibly low and foreboding, firm and gravely (and yet somehow blank) all at once. Dean swallowed his fear, struggling anew.

"Who are you? Let me go!" The voice came again, but now with a flicker of patient irritation.

"Dean Winchester. Stop fighting me. I am not your enemy."

"Yeah, well—well friends don't hold friends up like they're fucking _pieces of meat!_" The voice sounded distantly puzzled (as though it weren't accustomed to the feeling, or even sure it was appropriate), and Dean started to crack his eyes open, carefully, trying to see. There was still too much light—everything was blurred.

"I am not your friend, Dean Winchester. I am your guide." Still, whoever-it-was set him down on his own two feet and Dean's knees abruptly buckled under the weight. Hands as hard as rocks gripped onto his biceps. The fingers dug in but the strength behind them effortlessly kept him from falling. It was like Dean weighed no more than a child. Dean breathed a harsh laugh, ashamed of his own weakness and shoved himself away from whoever-it-was, dropping down to a seat on the ground, mostly under his own power. Dean ran a hand over his face, slowly rubbing at his eyes and then smoothing a hand back through his hair, taking comfort in the familiar habit. He blinked slowly, and the world gradually came into focus. Dean looked around, and _stared._

It couldn't be.

It was abso-posi-lutely freaking _impossible._

But, as always, Dean's mouth worked before he could parse what he was seeing.

"_Jimmy?" _Jimmy's face was devoid of emotion but for a little wrinkle between his eyebrows and a tightening of his mouth at Dean's stunned comment. Jimmy's eyes were an electric shade of blue—normally Dean wouldn't've noticed, but he _knew_ Jimmy hadn't had eyes like that, before. (_This _color was completely impossible _not_ to notice.) His mouth went dry in fear as Jimmy didn't respond right away, seeming to watch him, as though staring at Dean long enough would make him see through to Dean's very _soul._ Dean cringed at the thought, looking away. His soul hadn't been a pretty thing before Hell—he didn't want to know what it'd look like _now_. It didn't take a soul-searching weirdo for Dean to figure_ that_ out.

"I am not Jimmy." The statement came after about a full minute of silence, where Dean thought he'd just been ignored. He squinted up at Jimmy, taking stock of what had changed. But something was really different, something—something Dean _knew_ wasn't right, and his gut had saved his ass too many times _not _to trust it. His eyes narrowed, and 'Jimmy' met his gaze evenly, not nervous or ashamed, just staring back.

"What are you, then?" Dean spat, moving slowly to a crouched position, hand sliding back towards the knife that should be hidden in his boot. Not-Jimmy's mouth curled ever-so-slightly, almost indiscernible, but it was still _smug. _(The bastard.)

"Nothing you have can hurt me, Dean." Not-Jimmy did not step closer, only continued to observe, electric blue holding his gaze. "I would advise against violence." Dean curled his lip in a challenging sneer, fingers curling around the hilt of the knife.

"Oh yeah?" Not-Jimmy's head slowly tilted, that tiny near-smirk disappearing in favor of utter solemnity.

"Yes. I do not wish to fight you." Dean remained coiled, his teeth grinding together.

"Well, what if _I _want to fight _you, _hunh?" Dean's thoughts worked frantically in the background, using the bravado to buy time. Now that he was back, he had to find Sam, find Bobby. They would—

"I can help you get home, Dean Winchester." The… _Thing_ interrupted his train of thought and Dean blinked wide eyes up at him, jerking back. Even so, the _Thing_ merely continued to stare at him, head cocked like a bird examining a marble—as though the Thing didn't know quite what to do with Dean, but at least Dean was interesting to look at. Dean's lips curled back and he fought the urge to snarl.

"Get out of my head. What are you? Shapeshifter, changeling?" His eyes narrowed, and Dean slowly pulled the blessed dagger out from his boot, holding it in front of him. "_Demon?"_ The Thing with Jimmy's body seemed to gaze at him sadly, if Dean had to place an emotion on that expressionless stare. But the way it was… it was _watching _Dean, like it could see past his actions and into his _reactions_, and _that_ was—

"Dean. I am not a demon." As stupid as that face was, there was something in it that was earnest, that was trustworthy, that was almost _desperate_ for him to believe.

And then Dean asked the million-dollar question.

"Then what _are_ you, huh?" The Thing's face immediately closed up and Dean sneered, flicking the tip of his knife in a pointed gesture as he pressed his advantage. "Oh, suddenly all quiet? I notice you've been avoiding the question." Dean glared up at the Thing, jaw set and stubborn. "Give me _one_ _good reason_ why I should trust you if you won't even tell me what you _are_." The Thing's lower lip edged out slightly, as though Jimmy's bottom teeth were pressed against it. Dean didn't look away. Neither did it. For about half a minute they just _stared_ at each other, sizing one another up, trying to guess the next move. The Thing's response was clear and direct, when it came.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and Raised you from Perdition." Those electric blue eyes were open and honest again, even despite being grim and old. It didn't look right in Jimmy's face. At the reminder, Dean snapped, again.

"Yeah, and _you're_ the one riding poor Jimmy." The Thing's expression closed once again, and Dean laughed derisively. "Don't try to deny it! I _met_ the guy, and _you_ are _not_ him! So what'd you do with him?" The ever-present furrow between the Thing's brows deepened, and there was a shadow of a frown (not enough to actually _call_ it a frown, but it was the closest thing to it).

"Jimmy is not part of this mission." Dean barked another laugh, and the furrow became a ravine. "What is amusing?" Dean grinned up at it, so _angry_ on Jimmy's behalf and at the sheer _arrogance_ of this _prick._

"It's _Jimmy's_ body, and you're saying he's not _part_ of this?" Dean snorted, shaking his head and turning away. "That is a load of _crap_, you—" Dean was hauled up and jerked around by a rough hand on his arm, and he found himself staring, wide-eyed, into a _very_ pissed-off supernatural gaze. The Thing's voice had lowered to a growl.

"_Dean Winchester._ I slogged through _Hell_ for you, endured over twenty Earth years in the Pit _searching_ for you amidst the pain and torment and evil and lost _most of my garrison_ for _your_ sake, so do _not_ seek to dismiss me as though I were common scum." That hand drew him closer, _very_ angry eyes—angrier than Dean had ever seen directed at him (and considering how many creatures he'd killed, that was a _lot)—_bearing down on him, slicing into his soul, cutting him down.

"_You_ were the one with the knife in your hand when I found you, _you_ were the one torturing an innocent soul to madness, _you_ were the one who fought and bit and struggled to get away from us _just _ when we had found you and I will _not_ allow your _ignorance_ to cast a shadow on the sacrifices of my brothers!" Dean gasped at the intensity wound through those words, trying to fight to get away but the Thing snagged his other arm, not letting him escape, eyes _burning_ into him such that Dean had to close his or be swept away.

"You wanted to know what I am, Dean? I am an angel of the Lord, just like others you have hunted. But before you judge me, let me _remind_ you that _seven other angels—_my _garrison brothers__****__—_perished because you made a _Deal _with a _demon. _Seven _good_ angels have been eradicated from existence because you _had _to sacrifice yourself for your brother." Dean's eyes flew open, and the Th—the _angel_ glared back at him, anger mostly spent but still obviously incensed.

"_Yes_, Dean. I know about Sam. I know about your mother, Mary Winchester, and your father, John Winchester. I know—" Dean managed a protest at this, a grunted noise as he turned away in pain, wincing.

"S-Stop. Just… stop. Please." He could feel the angel watching him, could feel the tenuous thread that the angel'd come _this close_ to snipping. Dean knew his family. He loved them. And to hear them talked about like—like _bargaining chips_ was— "What… What do you know about them." Dean dreaded the answer, but he _had to know. _The angel was silent and Dean held his breath.

"I know everything." That grave voice was quieter, though—not exactly _soft_, but careful in a way it hadn't been, before. Not careful with precision, but more… Almost hesitant. (Like it was apologizing?) Dean chanced a quick glance up, only to find the angel staring at him, stonily expressionless and closed off, once more. But this time, it _knew. _Dean could _see _that it knew, as plainly as if the information were playing on a screen between them.

_(Dad? Dad! What are you doing, you can't—_

_**It'll be all right, son. Just go out and wait in the car. I'll be back soon.**_

_But Dad—_

_**Go!**)_

Nervous, Dean shoved back the memories of a scared ten-year-old and tried an awkward smile.

"Well, uh. Don't—don't go tellin' everybody about that, OK?" The angel tipped its head to one side—birdlike, again—gaze flickering for a moment in uncertainty. Dean cleared his throat. "Um. Think you could, eh. Let me down?" The angel did another weird almost-frown, to that, but complied. Dean managed to keep himself upright, this time, and stepped away, looking down at his clothes as he dusted himself off. He jumped when the angel spoke, even though it was quiet and deliberate.

"I would not share such information freely, Dean Winchester." Dean winced, and peered back up at him, eyes wary but mouth curled into a joking half-smile.

"Dude, no need to be so formal. It's just_ Dean._" He sighed, running a hand back through his hair, eyes closing momentarily in thought. "So, what? You're like my guardian angel, or something?" He opened them to watch the angel, again, who was only staring at him blankly, once more, tone flat.

"I am not a guardian angel, Dean. I am your guide." Dean squinted at him.

"Yeah, you said that, before. Guide to what, exactly?" The angel met his scrutiny, unblinking.

"To your fate." One of Dean's eyebrows rose. The angel did not break their staring contest. Dean couldn't help but smirk a little, and waved a hand.

"Yeah, well. I'll take your word for it. What's your name, anyway? I mean, you seem to know _mine_, and uh—" _A lot about me you __**shouldn't**__ know. _"—some other stuff, but I don't know anything about _you."_ The angel simply looked at him, so grave and steadfast it was almost funny.

"My name is Castiel." Dean raised his brows, expectantly. The angel seemed to flounder for a moment—that furrow at the bridge of his nose deepening again—and sent Dean a glance that was perturbed but simple. "I am… the angel of Thursday." To that, Dean huffed, a little in disbelief.

"The 'angel of Thursday'? You're kidding, right?" The angel did that weird little almost-but-not-quite frown at him, again.

"No." Dean bit his lip, and looked away, ducking his head slightly in a shake and snickering to himself.

"Oh, that's _great_. I was saved by the freakin' 'angel of Thursday_'_!" He turned back to the angel, grinning teasingly. "Where'd you get those, huh?" He appraised the angel's attire, lips twitching a bit at the white hospital scrubs beneath a tan trenchcoat. Dean couldn't help but laugh. "Did you rob a thrift store, or something?" The angel seemed to have given up on confusion, because now he glared at Dean.

"Angels do not steal. These—" The angel looked down, pressing his hands to his front to indicate the clothing before looking back up. "—were given to me by a fellow angel living nearby. She works as a nurse." To that, Dean felt his good humor sober, and stared quietly at the angel. It blinked back.

"Hey. Why're you guys possessing so many people, huh? I know why demons do it, but aren't angels supposed to be… I dunno. 'Better?'" The angel peered at him, squinting a bit as though trying to understand. He answered after a few moments. (Dean was starting to think the pauses were habitual.)

"We _are…_ 'better', Dean." The angel dipped his head and gazed up at him, electric blue eyes full of conviction and justice. "Our Father works in mysterious ways. His Will cannot be questioned." Dean frowned.

"But _why. _They're innocent people—" The angel exhaled slowly, and glanced away.

"Dean. I cannot expect you to understand. But God's Will is Just. The Cause is Just." The angel looked back at him, then, as distant and immoveable as before. "Have Faith." Dean felt a small uncomfortable feeling squirm in the area of his gut, but swallowed it, hoping that (_just this once)_ he was wrong.

Because _God? _How could _God _be wrong? But all those people's bodies, possessed by angels—

"Sure. Whatever you say."

Dean didn't believe it, but he could feel this wasn't an argument he could afford to have, right now.

First things first, anyway—he _had_ to get back to Bobby and Sammy.

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,012, January 6-_

"Hey, helloooo—" Crowley peered through the window in the door of the bookshop. He knocked on it with the backs of his fingers, naturally ignoring the prints he was putting on the glass (as well as the 'Closed' sign). He put his hand on the knob [17] and went in. Crowley glanced around, then noticed the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. They often flickered [18], but right now they were completely _off_, which was strange. His eyes settled on the door to the back room, and he frowned, thoughtfully. Well, it _could_ be that Aziraphale had discovered the 'green' initiative as of late and had decided to cut back on energy—_no_, but that was thinking like a human. They'd probably just burned out and the angel hadn't noticed. Crowley grumbled to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets and complaining loudly in a harsh, spoiled drawl as he strode towards the door to the backroom.

"_Angel_, if I have to _drag you out_ by your _tie_ we're going to _dinner_ because I have had a _long_ week breaking in the new year, and—" He trailed off at seeing the abandoned coffee and slightly grease-stained bag beside the cash register, and frowned again. Crowley picked up the coffee, and something fluttered to the floor from the bottom of it. He glanced down, and the scrap of paper flew into his hand. It had a circular coffee stain on it, but the copperplate handwriting wasn't hard to place.

_C.- DW out of Hotbox. Find SW. Meet me at SSY. Take care. -A._

Crowley sighed. Why hadn't Aziraphale just _called? _It was then he noticed the P.S.

_P.S. Do consider checking your messages more often, dear._

He winced. Yeah, well. He was a busy demon, and didn't have _time _to check his messages. [19]

Looks like he'd have to head to America, though.

To hunt for a hunter.

Who just so happened to be trained to exorcise demons. (Which was _annoy_ing.)

Also _without _his Bentley, 'cause he'd need to hurry (and wouldn't dare risk the car in a teleport).

…Great.

Just_ fan-_freaking-_tastic._

[17] unlocking it automatically

[18] It helped to give the shop that 'spooky' feel which tended to make any would-be customers uncomfortable being inside for long.

[19] Perhaps Aziraphale just didn't quite_ realize_ how large a social network a respectable demon had to have, when that demon happened to be in the temptation business. Besides, there was nothing better than calling the person back after they'd taken the time to leave a message, as _each_ and _every_ time Crowley made sure to blithely admit to having _not_ listened to it. Aziraphale's message was currently lost in a virtual labyrinth of unheard voicemails ranging from panicked people of importance (including celebrities and millionaires) to sleazy cable company executives and desperate housewives. [20]

[20] Pun _dreadfully _intended. Crowley had a grudging relationship with so-called 'reality' TV. On one hand he _loved_ all the brain-rotting and ignorance and whatnot it fostered in its viewers, and on the other hand he positively _adored _all the 'smart people' getting so angry and up-in-arms about its moral depravity. Win-win on the lesser evil scale, really. But there was something about it that was so… _hollow. _He couldn't quite bring himself to watch it, even if he enjoyed the effects it had on humanity. [21]

[21] And _then_ there was the commendation he'd gotten for it—back in 2000, when it really boomed, globally, with "Survivor" and "Big Brother"—and who was _Crowley _to dissuade the bureaucrats of Hell from thinking he was a complete mastermind when it came to evil deeds? [22]

[22] In truth, he'd had barely anything to do with it (other than starting "COPS" in 1989 and planting the idea for "Cheaters" in someone's head in the 1990s, of course [23]).

[23] And, really, "Cheaters" just kept getting _better _with _age _(information courtesy of Wikipedia, and, again, included here for your enjoyment):

On August 8, 2010 Equal Employment Opportunity Commission press release reports that Bobby Goldstein Productions, Inc., and Cheaters II, Ltd. (Civil Action No. 3:08-CV-1912-P) paid $50,000 to settle a sexual harassment lawsuit. The suit was brought on the behalf of two female office assistants who were the target of frequent sexual jokes and comments, unwanted physical advances, and propositions for sex. The alleged perpetrators included members of upper management. Says attorney Robert A. Canino, a regional attorney from the EEOC Dallas District Office, "[j]ust because the creator of _Cheaters_ promotes a TV show business which thrives on featuring sexual transgressions, it is no justification for engaging in sexual improprieties which violate the employment rights of his female employees behind the scenes."

~END CHAPTER NINE~


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3

Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: The Fifth World

Chapter 10/24

Word Count: 11,870

Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens

Characters: Dean, Castiel, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Serpent of Eden, Sam, Ruby

Warning(s): Language, angelic intimacy, some violence, mentions of addictions, inner conflict, angelic folk tales.

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post Date: Friday, September 21, 2012

_Anno Domini 2,002_ = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)

_Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004_ = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"

_Anno 4,004 Ante Christum _= "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)

: : : = Change in P.O.V.

: : : : : : :

_1 Corinthians 9:21_

_To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (not being outside the law of God but under the law of Christ) that I might win those outside the law._

: : :

_-Anno Domini 2,012, January 3-_

"Whoa, hold on there!" Dean ducked away from the angel's advancing pair of fingers, quickly retreating. Those electric blue eyes gazed at him in palpable befuddlement, forehead drawing wrinkles together. Dean scowled, warily watching the angel from a few steps away. The angel peered at him, as though by merely squinting it could understand his withdraw.

"Do you not wish to return home?" Dean huffed, still eying him dubiously.

"Yeah, so? What's that got to do with you _touching_ my _forehead_?" The angel gave an almost-frown, to that, head tipping slightly to one side, as though unconsciously.

"I do not understand. I was merely going to transfer us to Robert Singer's home." Dean paused, carefully sizing up the angel's words and visibly trying to wrap his mind around the concept.

"So it's like some sort of angelic 'Instant Transmission'?" He grinned. "Didn't know you guys watched DragonBallZ." The angel simply stared at him, eyes showing a flicker of exasperation.

"We don't. What is this 'Dragon's Ballsy'?" Dean huffed a short laugh, waving a hand to dismiss it.

"Doesn't matter. You are _not_ 'transferring' me anywhere with any of your creepy angel mojo. Got that?" The angel's almost-frown was a bit more pronounced, now.

"Why?" Dean snorted, glaring stubbornly and _pointing _at the clueless sonuvabitch.

"Dude, first of all we _just_ met, and you're kinda a creature I've been hunting _all my life_." Dean eyed the angel, mouth screwing in unease and indecision. "You're also possessing a pal of mine, so consider yourself lucky I haven't tried to exorcise you, yet. …But hey, I figure you'd silence me before I could finish the incantation, right?" The angel's gaze went deadpan at the obvious statement, and Dean hurried on. "_Anyway. _Point is, I'm not gonna trust you right off the bat, like that. Not my style." The angel frowned at him, jaw tightening in hidden confusion.

"I do not understand. What has a bat to do with this?" Dean exhaled, closing his eyes briefly and shaking his head.

"It doesn't _matter_, jeez. But you are _not _magic-ing me anywhere, got that? As my guardian angel, you have to do what I say, right?" The angel's eyes flashed, and Dean hastily backpedaled. "I mean. As my _guide_, you have to respect my wishes. Yeah? You're supposed to _guide_ me, not _force_ me to do things, right?" There was a tense moment as the angel gazed sullenly at him, processing this. Dean didn't know _what_ it was thinking, and he readied himself to run like hell if he had to. But then it spoke.

"My Orders are to follow your judgements, Dean—even if they do not make sense." The angel seemed to sigh, then. "You are correct. I am here to provide aid, not force you to conform. I apologize." Dean blinked, and the angel stared up at him, a tad soulfully. The next words out of Dean's mouth were _not_ planned.

"So are you, uh, ever gonna get out of Jimmy?" The angel's face closed up, and it looked away. Dean swallowed, but pushed on. "I mean. He's—he's a nice guy, y'know? Got a sister and a young niece to worry about. Why'd you pick _him_? Why not someone else?" The angel's eyes slid back to him, closed-off and very quiet.

"Neither of us is at liberty to question Heaven's Orders, Dean. My Father commanded it, and so it was done." There was a note of finality, of warning, in that statement, and Dean knew well enough when to back off. But he still watched the angel for another pensive moment, neither of them looking away. Dean shrugged his shoulders dismissively, turning away.

"Yeah, well, that's great and all, but I'm _judging_ that it's best you just leave me alone.", He started to head away from the scene of his raised coffin. After a few paces, Dean realized he didn't hear steps in the ankle-high grass behind him. He stopped, looking over his shoulder.

The angel was gone.

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 5-_

It'd been two days since Dean was Raised, and Aziraphale was now quite a few timezones to the west of England. Currently, he was sipping a mug of tea in Jody's kitchen, worriedly peering out the windows (which had again been de-angel-proofed, in preparation for his arrival). The house had changed since his last visit, six months ago. It was quieter, sadder. Four months of grief had soaked into the walls, layering on top of the sadness already buried deep within. Aziraphale sighed to himself. He supposed he should've known his return to England would be temporary. What with another apocalypse on the way, and Dean being marked as the Righteous Man… Aziraphale's mouth tightened, and he unconsciously gripped his mug a little firmer. He hoped Crowley had gotten his message, and was already in the States.

_Oh, Dean. I do hope Crowley manages to find Sam soon._

The poor lad would need all the support he could get, after all.

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 7-_

Sam Winchester knew how to hide_—well—_and it was bloody infuriating.

Crowley had teleported himself over to America [1], and stuck out his feelers in every direction. In retrospect, perhaps it was _good_ that McLeod had essentially usurped his name, in Hell. Aziraphale's and his names had been stricken from the record, but McLeod officially _shared _his name, and hadn't been forgotten because he was a _different_ Crowley than the one Adam had protected. This had the ugly side effect of that rotten bastard getting all the praise for his 6,000-year history at work, but if it meant Hell wouldn't come after him, Crowley was fine with that. Unfortunately, McLeod had become a pretty big player in Hell after getting in with Lilith's crowd in the 1880s. It had bothered Crowley at the time, but he hadn't wanted to make trouble over it. It was obvious McLeod had used his name to get in the door (Lilith still remembered the Serpent, after all), and Crowley honestly didn't _care_ what McLeod did, since Crowley wasn't down in Hell much. (Besides, being able to say he was under Lilith's protection had got him out of a few rough spots, with Management. Crowley'd tried not to abuse the rank—because then somebody might_ notice_ there was more than one Crowley running around—but it was still a handy ace to play.)

In 1990 that'd all changed, though, and it wasn't until afterwards that Crowley realized McLeod was probably still going around with his name. He had felt a very demonic stab of spite that the Leprechaun would be (quite literally) taking the heat for his insubordination (served McLeod right, for stealing his name). It wasn't until after the incident with the Three Fates in 2011 that Crowley would realize it was possible McLeod was still around, since Crowley's name had been wiped from the records. (It would've been hard to realize this before, as Crowley and McLeod stuck to different circles [2] and Crowley hadn't initiated contact with Hell since 1990.) Adam hadn't known about McLeod, hadn't known about McLeod using his name (because those thoughts had been _very_ far from the forefront of Crowley's mind, during the Nopocalypse), and so _couldn't've_ stricken McLeod from the record, too (it likely hadn't helped that Crowley thought of 'McLeod-Crowley' in his head as 'McLeod', either). Well, Adam _had_ been eleven at the time, and _had_ been rather unpracticed with his powers. Crowley really couldn't blame the boy for the oversight, because politics in Hell were just about as convoluted as those on Earth. How could he have _possibly _thought to properly convey all the nuances and problems with his life Below in the split-second Adam had read about his life on the back of his skull? (Besides, it wouldn't've been fair to ask Adam to do that. Upon reflection on that thought, Crowley realized he honestly hated the influence Aziraphale'd had on him, at times. He really, _truly_ did. The times when he didn't mind so much didn't count.)

As things were, the Leprechaun had been _busy_, that was for sure. Crowley had found dozens of McLeod's subordinates sprinkled all over the States. He daren't approach them as himself, because they'd likely know in a nonexistent heartbeat that Crowley wasn't the demon they followed. So he observed them for a while, seeing if he could pick anything up on the demonic communication channels. He'd been relieved he didn't have to watch quite a few people get their throats slit so the demons could communicate with McLeod. (Mobile phones had really become _such_ a wonderful staple of everyday life, and Crowley damned them thankfully, under his breath.)

[1] Well, perhaps 'teleported' wasn't quite the right word. To humans, it certainly appeared as such, but to angels (and those of angel stock) it was simply a few quick flaps of wings, and they were instantly at their destination. Granted, traveling at those speeds required intense concentration and a good dollop of energy, but it was _worth_ it for the time saved, in Crowley's opinion. (He suspected Aziraphale avoided 'teleporting' only because the angel was so scatter-brained and disliked using his Grace for things he had deemed 'frivolous'.)

[2] Oops, a Hell pun.

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 13-_

Early one morning, Crowley eventually heard something about Ruby meeting up with Sam, and felt his skin crawl. Ruby was a whore. She was Lilith's, part of the plan, part of whatever McLeod and the rest of Hell was cooking up. Sam was smart, though. Why would he be talking with a _demon_, of all things? Crowley knew Sam didn't trust demons, and had expected to have to deal with that prejudice right off. Either way, he'd have to move fast. If Ruby was meeting up with Sam, that meant she was close to him. It was the best lead Crowley'd got, and he went after it. The sooner he caught up to Sam, the sooner he could get back to Bobby's and share with Aziraphale what was happening on Hell's end.

(What _was_ happening, anyway?)

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 4-_

Dean had wandered away from the scene of the coffin. It was a freaky place, and looked like a nuke had gone off, all the trees blasted flat in a circle going out from his former grave. He found an old gas station and broke in, chugging down bottles of water, getting some food and taking a few bills (no more than he needed) from the cash register. An old powder-blue clunker was parked outside, and by the dust it looked like it hadn't been touched in _years_. Dean hotwired it to start, and took off in the direction of South Dakota. He didn't bother to call. Why would Bobby believe him? The only way they could sort this out was if Dean showed up, in the flesh, to prove he wasn't a creature or a zombie or… or _something._

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 6-_

Dean pulled past the sign that read 'Singer Salvage Yard' and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Bobby's van parked out front. He parked, and walked up to the front door, raising a hand to knock. Before he could, though, the door swung open and he was drawn into a tight, fierce hug. Dean blinked, and over Bobby's shoulder saw Jody and Azzy—the angel?—smiling at him. Then Azzy's eyes wandered over Dean's shoulder to the open door, and Dean saw him stiffen. Still caught in Bobby's embrace, Dean only caught a low jab of a comment from the British angel.

"It's lovely to see you." Azzy's eyes were kind, and he was smiling, but it was tentative and guarded. Dean frowned, pushing away from Bobby and eying Azzy, feeling uneasy at his reaction.

"What's wrong?" Azzy's eyes remained fixed behind Dean, but when Dean waved a hand in the path of his stare to get Azzy's attention, that blue-grey gaze at last flicked to him.

"Dean. Are you aware an angel has been following you?" A rock fell into his gut, and Dean swallowed. He'd had a few strange feelings on the trip here, but—without warning, Dean spun around, pointing accusingly at the empty doorway.

"You—You _bastard! _I told you to leave me _alone!_ What, didn't like my answer and so decided to _stalk _me_?_" Bobby looked at Azzy, but the angel didn't glance at him.

"What, is it—?" Azzy answered quietly, still not taking his eyes off the doorway.

"Yes." Bobby turned to stare at the doorway, and right then, in the midst of it, a man looking to be in his twenties appeared. Bobby's stunned whisper of 'Jimmy' went mostly unheard as the man spoke, sounding vaguely puzzled (as though he didn't know what to do with the emotion).

"Brother? I was not aware two of us had been assigned to keep watch." A small furrow dipped between the man's eyebrows. "Under whose Orders are you here?" Dean's gaze swiveled back to Azzy, but the angel was still smiling (even if it looked a bit strained). Azzy advanced slowly towards the other angel, arms spreading out to his sides in a universal gesture of peace.

"Ah, yes—Brother. I apologize. I was—" Azzy carefully maneuvered himself between Dean and Bobby, never once losing eye contact with the other angel. "—that is, I have free reign over this mission." Dean felt himself being pushed subtly backwards by a gentle puff of air, and guessed it was Azzy's Grace. It wasn't forceful, and of the two angels in the room he trusted Azzy marginally more (because Bobby did), so Dean let himself back away along with Bobby, warily eying the angel in Jimmy's body from over Azzy's shoulder. The angel hadn't looked away from Azzy, that unending stare on him, now.

"I do not understand. Zachariah said there was no need for more than one angel to watch over Dean." Dean felt Azzy's Grace draw back from him, sharply, like a quick intake of breath after touching something sharp. But outwardly, Azzy was still calm, slowly approaching the other angel.

"Yes, ah. Zachariah. I do not act under his jurisdiction, I'm afraid." Azzy tipped his head forward, slightly, presumably to get a better look at the other angel (or so Dean guessed). Dean felt a soft ripple in the air, like something he couldn't see was reaching out at the Jimmy-wearing angel in the doorway. "There is residue of Hell on your Grace, my dear. I am sorry for your suffering." Dean could see that the other angel seemed only unsettled by this shift, but it didn't try to move or back away.

"We are Father's warriors. Our suffering means nothing if, through it, His Will be done." The angel squinted at Azzy, then. "Forgive me, Brother, but I do not know your name. I have not seen you in Heaven." Dean inhaled quickly, but Azzy still remained calm.

"All in good time, Brother. Perhaps we should go outside and talk?" Azzy said warmly and now Dean could hear the smile in his voice. "It hardly is worth worrying _them_, yes?" The angel stared at him for a moment longer, then at Dean—seeming to assess something—and Azzy waited patiently.

"Yes." The angel conceded, finally, turning to head back out the door. Azzy glanced quickly back at Bobby, silently signalling for him to put the Enochian wards back on the windows. It was only for a moment, but Azzy's gaze was steely, uncompromising and heavy with urgency. They scattered for the materials just as he turned, and the other angel reached the edge of the porch.

: : :

They walked for about fifteen minutes, into the depths of the salvage yard, until Aziraphale was quite convinced they were out of range of the other angel noticing the Enochian wards going up. They had gone together in silence, both mutually agreeing to remain so until it was certain they were far enough away from the humans. Aziraphale had been buying time. He didn't know how things had gone in Heaven—didn't know what giving up his name might do. It could have a ripple effect, this other angel could report him for being on Earth unauthorized and—Aziraphale swallowed. Oh, he _couldn't_ be called back up to Heaven—not _now! _Crowley would be arriving in a few days with Sam, and—

Oh. Oh, dear. He hadn't thought of—the angel would hardly take kindly to a demon being around the Righteous Man. Aziraphale had to handle this very carefully. He didn't want to lie—that was Crowley's department, not his—but perhaps in the interest of… No, no. the other angel would only be more suspicious if Aziraphale gave a _fake_ name. What if he were found out? It would draw more attention than necessary, as Aziraphale was sure Heaven was still looking for Aniel and any of her garrison who hadn't heeded Zachariah's Call. Any angel unaccounted for would draw Zachariah's attention. How, then, to go about this? How to get as much information out of this angel without lying to him, without feeling guilty about it, afterward—

"I am Castiel." Aziraphale surfaced from his thoughts quickly enough, managing a small smile towards the angel—Castiel, then?—at his side.

"Angel of Thursday." Castiel nodded, still staring straight ahead as they continued walking.

"Yes."

"Were you of Brother Aniel's garrison, then?" A slight pause, to that.

"The garrison has disbanded. Seven of my brothers were lost in Hell." Aziraphale couldn't know what it felt like (as he'd never been in a garrison, only stationed on Earth, alone), but it was obvious the experience had been painful for Castiel. He put a hand on the angel's shoulder, and Castiel looked at it, then him. Aziraphale offered a sad, honest smile.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Normally he would've given the poor, dear boy a hug, but Aziraphale hadn't quite found his footing with Castiel, yet. He didn't want to push, just in case it was too hard. Castiel merely stared at him for a moment longer, before dropping his gaze back to Aziraphale's hand on his shoulder. Aziraphale gave a gentle squeeze before withdrawing it, and Castiel focused back on his face.

"And you, Brother?" Aziraphale sighed, offering a slight smile.

"Aziraphale." Castiel's brow furrowed, the straight line of his mouth pulling downward, and Aziraphale kept his expression calm and patient, waiting for the reaction.

"I do not recall hearing of you." Aziraphale nodded, glad the pressure was off and he was more-or-less free to speak the (unaltered, but vague) truth, as it were.

"Yes. I wouldn't expect you to." Aziraphale chuckled quietly to himself, letting his gaze wander over the heaps of junked cars. "I have been stationed on Earth for over 6,000 years, Castiel. I haven't been to Heaven in a very long time." _Barring Metatron trying to yank me back there in 1990, of course_. He admitted privately to himself. [3]

"I do not understand." Castiel's voice brought him to the present, again, and Aziraphale glanced back at him. He attempted an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, dear. I haven't had the chance to talk to another angel in quite a while." Aziraphale paused, because he realized it was _true._ (Metatron in 1990 still didn't count—_that _had been _business._) Still, an angel he had just met—brother or not—would not interfere with his loyalty to Crowley. They had been through too much together for Aziraphale to consider throwing the dear demon 'over the car', now. They had found where their allegiances really fell, twenty-two years ago, and hadn't regretted it since. Aziraphale smiled a little warmer at the memory, even despite Castiel's puzzled frown.

"That is unfortunate. Surely you have received Orders, Brother?" Aziraphale bit his lip, and looked away. Well, it wasn't _really_ a lie (Castiel hadn't said _whose_ Orders, now had he?). He dithered.

"Well… Yes. Some years ago." Castiel's frown deepened.

"Heaven hasn't tried to make contact with you?" Aziraphale coughed quietly, politely covering it with his fist.

"Well, no. Not as such. My last Orders were rather… definite." Aziraphale fought the urge to wince, and glanced back at Castiel, worriedly. But the other angel was looking at him oddly, and Aziraphale beat down the sudden surge of anxiety, firmly sending it to the back of his mind. "Brother?"

"Your Grace. I just noticed. You are different." Castiel took a step back, and Aziraphale felt a quiet surge of panic as a silver dagger dropped into Castiel's hand, from his trenchcoat's sleeve. Aziraphale brought up his hands in a show of surrender, smiling gently.

"Castiel. I am your brother. I would do no harm to you." Still, Castiel squinted at him, suspicious, slowly leaning back into a half-crouch. Aziraphale recognized the form. He had to stop this _now. _"Please, Castiel. Why do you fear me?" Aziraphale remained where he was—not trying to run, not trying to advance—a hand raised on either side of his head, palms-out, smile genuine and steadfast.

"How do I know you are an angel. 'Aziraphale'—no angel in Heaven has that name. You are trying to trick me." Aziraphale kept eye contact, keeping himself very still, so as not to spook the other, more.

"You believe I am Fallen?" Castiel glared at him, and the silver dagger shifted in his hand. _Stabbing position._ Aziraphale recalled dimly, from his training regimen over 6,000 years ago.

"I have been to Hell, have experienced the Fallen brethren's tricks. What other creature could mimic Grace? Why else would you seek to separate me from my charge? No brother of mine would challenge my Orders, unless they had already Disobeyed." Aziraphale hesitated, his hands dropping a little. He didn't look away, meeting Castiel's eyes firmly.

"Castiel. I am not challenging your Orders. I am not Fallen." A corner of Castiel's vessel's mouth curled up, wryly. Aziraphale really hadn't expected to be believed so easily as that, but he had had to try.

"You lie. Your Grace bears the mark of Darkness—Lucifer's hand." Aziraphale allowed himself to frown, just slightly, until it came to him, and he closed his eyes, briefly. _Adam. _But Castiel was part of the Host, so he wouldn't_ remember…_ Aziraphale took a slow breath, letting his hands drop completely. No way to talk Castiel out of it, apparently. He leveled a serious stare on the other angel.

"Castiel. I am not Fallen." Castiel bristled at him, but Aziraphale kept his tone even. "If you want to be sure, try to smite me." Aziraphale gestured around him, eyes never leaving the other angel's. "If I am truly Fallen, I will be burned." Castiel sneered, defensive and obviously scared, although he was hiding it well under a sheen of bravado.

"Since you are Fallen, you will take the chance and run. You will leave your vessel and tell others of my mission, thereby jeopardizing it." Aziraphale frowned at him, feeling a prickle of annoyance at this angel's thick-headedness. He strode forward and predictably Castiel lunged at him, but Aziraphale caught his hand by the wrist, staring straight into Castiel's eyes as they each vied for control. Castiel's gaze burned at him in holy affront, and Aziraphale slowly brought his other hand up to the angel's cheek. Castiel tried to jerk away, but Aziraphale curled his fingers around his neck and held firm.

"_Castiel. _You are my brother, and I would never hurt you. I am _not _Fallen." He brought their foreheads together, then, closing his eyes and _willing_ a tiny portion of his Grace to leak into Castiel's vessel, through his fingertips. The tendrils slid into the tendons of Castiel's throat and down the veins in Castiel's wrist from his grip there, pure white-blue lines of light snaking inward, towards the core of Castiel's Grace. [4] Castiel thrashed, but Aziraphale held steady, control exact and full of simple intent. If Castiel would not believe him, then Aziraphale would _show_ him he was not Fallen. Aziraphale's Grace danced around the bristling fire of Castiel's core—not trying to smother or overpower it, only soothing and truthful—offering up only what was. Castiel lashed out at him, not understanding and like a fox in a cage. Aziraphale took the metaphysical blows in stride, his brow furrowing on the physical plane, sweat beading at his temples. Physically, Castiel was stiff, unresponsive at first glance, as all his energy was focused _inward_ on driving Aziraphale _out. _Castiel didn't take the time to wonder that no demon—Fallen or not—could bear such undiluted contact with angelic Grace without risking them both simply neutralizing each other and ceasing to exist.

After a minute, Aziraphale withdrew, slowly pulling back his Grace from Castiel's vessel (it was a good one, to have been able to stand such an intense level of conflict—although Aziraphale had been careful, of course, as he knew precisely _what_ and _how much_ a human body could take). Castiel slumped forward onto him, spent, and Aziraphale tried to support, but the effort had drained him, too. He sank to his knees, pulling Castiel down with him. The angelic blade dropped from Castiel's hand with a soft melodic 'clang'.

Aziraphale shifted his shoulders, and realized his wings were out, arced over them both protectively. He swept them back behind himself, as—with at least one of them aware of their surroundings—the defense was no longer needed. Castiel's wings were limp, sprawled out behind him in the gravel and Aziraphale tutted at the state of them. Poor dear clearly hadn't had a good grooming in _years_. Castiel shifted against him—face buried into Aziraphale's shoulder—and Aziraphale sighed, gently stroking his hair. After a moment of this, one of Castiel's hands came up and grabbed his wrist (stopping its fingers' stroking), and Aziraphale remained quiet as the other angel sat back, peering at him in unmasked confusion. Aziraphale smiled gently. After a moment, however, it appeared beyond Castiel to respond (the poor darling was still just _staring_ at him), so Aziraphale broke the silence, as well, his voice soft.

"I am not Fallen, my dear brother." Castiel just continued to stare at him, and Aziraphale awkwardly shifted his wings again, letting them fold up off the ground and behind his shoulders. He refrained from calling them back as Castiel's gaze flickered to them (drawn by, no doubt, the holy light with which they naturally glowed). It took another few seconds before the other angel responded, releasing his wrist and simply kneeling across from Aziraphale, looking off awkwardly.

"I… apologize. Brother. I—" Aziraphale beamed at him, affectionately sweeping Castiel's vessel's hair back from his forehead, causing the other angel to blink at him in startled surprise. Aziraphale cupped the other angel's jaw, thumb running up over Castiel's cheek. He felt warm from the inside, a warmth he hadn't felt in, well, _millennia, _and was buoyed up in the same way he had been in the time of the Son.

"Forgiven, Castiel." Aziraphale found himself unable to stop smiling. _Finally_, after _all this time_, he had another angel for company. Oh, wouldn't Crowley be happy for him! (Aziraphale still remembered that drunken night after Golgotha, after all, and _really_, the dear demon had been so _sweet_ about it, every time Aziraphale felt overcome with grief, refilling his wineskin and all, and—)

"Aziraphale." He blinked, refocusing on Castiel's face and the concern he saw there.

"Castiel?" Castiel hesitated, tentatively lifting a hand (as though to mimic Aziraphale's earlier gestures), but then drew it back. Aziraphale let him. He understood not everyone was as demonstrative as he was (_Bobby_ was certainly evidence of _that_)_. _Castiel's brow furrowed, perplexed. "What is it, dear?"

"Why does your Grace have Darkness in it, brother?" Aziraphale sighed, and shook his head. He patted Castiel's cheek before withdrawing his hand and looking off, quietly winching in his wings from the physical plane. (He couldn't tell him, not yet. Not when Castiel's loyalty still so obviously lay with Zachariah—and Heaven. Aziraphale couldn't _afford_ to be called back.)

"All answers in their proper time, dear." Aziraphale stood, and squinted quietly as he saw movement near the house. "I believe we might have worried them." Castiel hastily drew his own wings back from mortal view, as well, scrambling to stand.

"Dean." Aziraphale glanced at him, really quite glad he hadn't given in to the (Crowley-esque) urge to lie to Castiel in order to reassure him.

"Castiel." Castiel glanced back at him, attention drawn from the hubbub at the house. "What are your Orders concerning Dean?" Aziraphale saw the other angel hesitate, but ultimately Castiel's faith in his fellow angels won out.

"I am Dean Winchester's guide." Castiel's eyes on his were quiet, but open—trusting. "I was the one who found his soul and Raised him. Zachariah's Orders were for me to remain beside him to ensure his safety." Aziraphale felt another sharp stab of reality. Yes, of _course_. Even if Castiel was his brother, he was still an angel taking Heaven's Orders—an angel who would be _reporting_ to Heaven on a regular basis. Aziraphale had to be very careful. If he worded something wrong, he could be reported, and then who would be there for Crowley—or help those dear boys of Bobby's with the coming apocalypse? Dean was right in the middle of it, after all, and Aziraphale couldn't help but think there was more to this mess than met the eye. He'd have to wait for Crowley to return with Sam and have the demon weigh in on it, though. He smiled at Castiel, reaching to pat his hand.

"That's lovely, my dear. Perhaps we'd best let you get back to it, then?" Castiel stared at him, gaze affirming, and Aziraphale withdrew his hand, taking a slow breath as they headed back towards the house. It would be a tricky line to walk, but Aziraphale knew he could do it. He wouldn't need to _lie _to Castiel, merely—keep him from overhearing certain conversations. He could do that.

Aziraphale's head went up as someone yelled at them from the door. It sounded like Bobby. Aziraphale guessed they'd probably all been frightened of the sudden surge of Grace, and possibly even been worried (or perhaps _hoping_, although Aziraphale would vehemently object to the idea) that someone had been sent back to Heaven. As hunters, Bobby and Dean were quite aware that angels could be exorcised. As an angel, Aziraphale wouldn't wish that experience (of an exorcism) on _anyone_, and could only shudder at the thought if Castiel had been forced to return to Heaven like that. Zachariah likely would _not_ have been pleased, and Castiel's unexpected return could have only brought more questions.

Aziraphale doubted very much that Zachariah had Dean's best interests at heart. Castiel was faultless, only blindly following Orders (as Aziraphale had been trained to do, so very long ago) and hopefully as he spent more time down here, Castiel could be made to see that Heaven wasn't always right. Heaven wasn't always acting _in_ the right, or of their Father's will. Aziraphale had no wish to tarnish Castiel's faith, as—in the younger, less-Earth-experienced angels—that could too easily lead to a Fall. Aziraphale himself still believed in his Father, after all, just that Heaven could be a bit… misguided in its interpretations of His Will. Aziraphale very firmly felt it wasn't intentional, but some angels—like Zachariah—had forgotten what humility was like. It was an important trait in an angel, one Aziraphale had always noticed Metatron had a tendency to forget about. Not that pride—or any one of the Seven Deadly Sins on their own, really—could make an angel Fall, but it was always better to be prepared.

Aziraphale remembered the tale of Zaphiel, the Third Archangel. He had been brought into existence on the same day as Aniel, before Michael, Raphael, Lucifer and Gabriel had even been created. The legend went that on a day long after the Fall, Zaphiel—living up to his title of 'the Benign'—had shown kindness to Lucifer, and been speared with a Damned iron weapon for his trouble. Uriel and Michael had not been happy with Zaphiel. Aniel and Gabriel spoke of Forgiveness, siding with Zaphiel's actions, and telling of embracing the Virtues their Father had laid out for Man. Raphael—being a healer, and not wanting to fight—had merely remained silent, not joining the debate but nonetheless healing Zaphiel of his wound.

They were all brothers, and still reeling from the loss of Lucifer. Yet, Zaphiel—unable to take Uriel and Michael's harsh judgments—made the choice Descend to Earth. He was the first angel to do so. Many millennia later, Gabriel had declared Zaphiel to be right, and had also Descended, never to be heard from again. With Aniel's recent Descent fresh in his memory, Aziraphale could only conclude that perhaps Heaven was no longer as just-minded as before. [5]

Uriel, Michael and Raphael did no longer converse with Father, Zaphiel, Aniel or Gabriel. As his time on Earth lengthened, Aziraphale had found himself understanding why Zaphiel would so go against Heaven's mandates. Lucifer was the Devil, but he was still each Archangel's brother. Over time—as Aziraphale's own battles with Crowley began to lessen in intensity—Aziraphale began to realize how easy it was to give Charity instead of hoard Wrath. He admitted to privately admiring Zaphiel for his courage to do what he deemed right, and not be swayed by Heaven's rules concerning 'sides'.

Fallen angels were still their brothers, and it took 5,024 years for Aziraphale to realize that Crowley was not so much an immoral spawn of Hell as an agent, just like him—the only differences were, they worked for different sides and had different tastes. God had sent Aziraphale a Revelation in 1020 AD emphasizing just _that_, actually, and although Aziraphale had never shared the specifics with Crowley, he took God's Word to heart. His acceptance of Crowley as a _being_, not just an _enemy_ was apparently too important for him to brush off in favor of Heaven's official stance on such topics. God had told him so, himself—this was yet another reason Aziraphale had remained unswayed in his opinion.

Perhaps it was merely another marker to tally off, and yes—perhaps Aziraphale had been foolish to assume Heaven would _not_ want the then-Apocalypse-now-Nopocalypse to occur. Perhaps he shouldn't've assumed Father to have informed Heaven of His opinion. But it wasn't until Metatron tried to recall him that Aziraphale realized God had given him Orders meant expressly only for _Aziraphale_, and no other angel. It wasn't Aziraphale's place to understand _why_, but he knew enough that Father had given him that Revelation in 1020 for a _reason, _and even if it meant his death, Aziraphale had to follow it through to the end.

It was one of the reasons he had tried so hard to get to Lower Tadfield, the night of the Nopocalypse. Standing with Crowley as Lucifer's Essence rumbled up from Below was something Aziraphale had never regretted. Amazingly, they hadn't been punished for it afterwards, and it was then that Aziraphale felt that God had been watching out for them, all along. Ineffable. It was an unavoidable conclusion, because how _else_ could he and Crowley have gotten off without a scratch, after their respective acts of insubordination? It was too telling that the hand of God had been in it—on _their_ side, not Heaven's or Hell's—and Aziraphale was not one to take such support lightly. And so he merely continued to live by those conclusions, allowing Crowley to satisfy his paranoia even though Aziraphale felt neither side would dare to touch them, now. The incident with the Three Fates in 2011 had only helped solidify his theories.

Aziraphale and Crowley were safe. No matter what would happen, they would be taken care of. Not even Clotho's allusion to their deaths could shake Aziraphale's belief in this. Everything and everyone died, it was an inevitability of nature, and Crowley and Aziraphale had spent too long on Earth not to be touched, in some way, by the daily influences around them. If death was one of the consequences, then so be it. Aziraphale did not regret these past 6,016 years. Earth was worth every one of them (so was his friendship with Crowley, if it came down to it).

[3] Aziraphale had actually almost crossed the Aether Gate and gone out of the Earthly Dimension entirely, but—after his physical form had expired once out of Earth's atmosphere—had managed to pull his Grace free of Metatron's grip. With the blue light of Heaven no longer pulling him in one direction, Aziraphale had plummeted back towards Earth, landing quite hap-hazardly in a random body. It had taken a few tries to get back to England (traveling was _so_ inconvenient when one didn't have a single body to physically align with), but at least the teleportation hadn't been as tricky as when he had a corporation to worry about.

[4] It was not the more common technique (from hands-in instead of forehead-in), but it would do. Aziraphale did not wish to overwhelm the vessel, and he did not have as much practice nor control as Aniel, Second Archangel (now Descended) and Castiel's former superior.

[5] After all, with the Archangels embodying Kindness, Charity, Humility and Temperance gone, all that remained were those associated with Chastity, Diligence and Patience. These three Virtues alone did not guarantee Heaven's (_not _God's, they weren't the same anymore, apparently) judgments to be unquestionably beyond reproach. It had taken time, but gradually Aziraphale could reflect and begin to see how Heaven's Orders had changed over the millennia. The truly worrying difference, now, was Aniel's departure—for if the Archangel known as 'the Just' had abandoned Heaven, what hope could be had that Heaven was thus still acting 'justly'?

Oh, after Gabriel's Descent Heaven still acted as though its intentions were pure, and it remained dutiful, and did not act rashly, but without the steadying factors of generosity, kindness and humility, quite the pressure was placed on Aniel to keep Heaven acting _righteously_. With her having Descended, Aziraphale could only assume the worst. Great atrocities had been done in human history—he had _seen_ them, himself—with the perpetrators thinking their cause was pure and untouchable, their efforts meticulous, and as though they acted mercifully. Why should Heaven be subject to any less scrutiny?

_[ To refresh your memory:_

_Listed by age of creation, the original Seven Archangels embodying the Seven Heavenly Virtues were referred to by the following titles among their brethren: Uriel the Pure (of Chastity), Aniel the Just (of Temperence), Zaphiel the Benign (of Charity), Michael the Dutiful (of Diligence), Raphael the Merciful (of Patience), Lucifer the Devoted (of Kindness) and Gabriel the Brave (of Humility). ]_

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, Jarnuay 15-_

Crowley spent the day taking a nap in a five-star hotel in a part of the city that was kid-friendly. He'd been doing a lot of traveling in the past week—all for one _blessed_ angel he'd give a right good piece of his mind to, when he saw him—and needed the uninterrupted rest. The more shady part of town was pleasant enough (with all the drug deals and other temptations going on), but Crowley was a light sleeper. He couldn't very well keep the yelling and gunshots silent while he was _asleep_, now could he?

Around eight 'o clock at night, Crowley rolled out of bed and headed for the rendezvous point. Ruby and Sam were meeting in a run-down old warehouse—probably Sam's idea, to limit the number of bystanders. Crowley scoffed to himself as he approached, sensing no less than six demons (and they _were _demons, not other Fallen, which was a relief) hovering around the warehouse. Two approached him as he strode up, and he gave them a winning smile from behind his sunglasses.

"Hey, gents." They peered at him for a moment—dark, Hell-twisted human auras reaching out to check his. Crowley let them, shoulders relaxed and hands in the pockets of his expensive black slacks. He had nothing to hide, and no one in Hell knew his name. But he was still a cut above the average human-turned-demon, and every Fallen had a different energy. Demons were more homogenous (as they all had started as human souls), but each Fallen had had to figure a way out of his angelic True Form on his own—the end result being that no two Fallen's Essences were shaped alike. This wasn't Heaven he was trying to get it by, either, so Adam's 'messing about' shouldn't cause any suspicion. (After all, Adam had the same type of energy as his father, Hell's 'master'.) Briefly, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale—when he'd been tracking down those angels, years ago—had met with any trouble from Heaven, due to Adam's 'altercations'.

Well, no time to worry about it now. The demons had finished their check.

"So who're you?" Crowley huffed, giving them an incredulous look.

"What, Ruby didn't tell you? I swear, I told her I'd be dropping by." He gazed at them in disappointment, tone pitying. "Good girl, that one, but she does_ so_ tend to forget important details." The demons gave each other a sidelong look, and Crowley smiled to himself. Hands still in his pockets, he raised his voice, just loud enough to be startling. "What, you don't recognize your own boss? The help these days." He shook his head, stepping forward and the demons hastily scuttled to get out of the way.

"Sir!"

"Crowley, sir!" Crowley paused after a few steps, peering behind him and putting a finger to his lips with a slight grin.

"Shhh. Don't go letting her know I'm here. It's a _surprise."_ The demons straightened up in fear, nodding, and Crowley graced them with a snakish smirk.

"Good lads. You'll go far in this business."

He turned to walk away again, silently laughing to himself at the sheer _stupidity._ Any demon worth his salt (not literally, because _ouch)_ could fake McLeod's mannerisms—another reason Crowley tended to work alone. Lesser demons were so _unimaginative—_it was like Hell bleached all the creativity out of them. You also never knew when they might betray you, or get tricked by someone smarter, or let something slip. Stupid or not, information was _precious_ and the less people to spread it around, the better.

(Lucky for Crowley that McLeod's current vessel had a British accent, though.)

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 15-_

Sam warily eyed the brunette across from him. It'd been four months since Dean was dragged to Hell, and she'd appeared sometime before then, saying she could help. The demon's name was Ruby, and she'd saved Sam's life a few times, recently. That meant nothing, of course. Ruby was still a demon, but at least she wasn't Crowley. She said she still remembered what it was like to be human, and that she wanted to help Sam get Dean back. Sam didn't care if she was lying, if it meant he could use her. And they'd worked together pretty well, meeting off-and-on, usually just with Ruby giving him hints and sending Sam places. He never got ambushed, so Sam knew her intel, at least, was good.

But what she was asking, now…

"What do you mean, I'm 'special'?" Sam frowned at her from across the room, careful to keep his distance. Ruby smiled.

"C'mon, Sam, you had to have noticed. Remember those dreams, a few months ago? The ones you never told Dean about? The ones that saved the lives of that single mom and her two kids?" Sam's mouth tightened—he and Dean had seen Mary Winchester's ghost, on that case. Ruby's face softened from its persuasive tone, turning understanding. "Look, I know it's hard. But you're meant for greatness, Sam. This is just another little step along the way." Sam frowned at her, unsure.

"I don't see why you'd think drinking blood would help." Ruby smirked at him, tilting her head, long brown hair falling over her shoulder.

"Not just _any_ blood, Sam. _My_ blood. Demon blood. With special people like you, it can work wonders." One fine eyebrow raised, her mouth curling up. "If you get good enough, you can even exorcise without killing. Would save a lot more people, that way." Sam eyed her.

"Why are you telling me this?" Ruby heaved a sigh, shoulders rolling as she turned around, tone bitter.

"C'mon, you still don't trust me? After all the help I've given you to try and get Dean back?"

"Dean's still in Hell." Ruby looked at him over her shoulder, smiling.

"Not for lack of trying, Sam. C'mon, I did my best. So did you. But sometimes you've just gotta take a different tack, try something new if the old doesn't work. Right?" Sam stared at her, forehead folding in on itself, his whole being radiating indecision. Ruby quirked another confident smirk.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I think you're leaving out a few pertinent details, Rubes." At the sudden (British?) voice, both Sam and Ruby jerked in surprise. Ruby's hand went to the knife sheathed at her belt, and Sam's went into his jacket, grabbing the sawed-off salt shotgun there. He didn't pull it out just yet, though. Ruby snarled.

"Who's there!" Sam heard a chuckle from off to his right, and a smartly-clad man in a fashionable black suit and matching sunglasses stepped out from behind a pile of boxes, smirking slightly. He tipped his head towards Sam.

"'lo, Sam." Sunglasses' head turned, slightly, square black lenses now aimed at Ruby. "Taken to hanging around quite the low lot, haven't you?" Ruby took offense, taking a step forward.

"Who are you? One of Lilith's?" Sunglasses smiled.

"Playing that card, are we? Quite daring of you. …Sam." Sunglasses' tone was suddenly sharp, his mouth pulling down in anger even as he kept staring at Ruby (presumably, since Sam still couldn't see the guy's eyes). "Don't believe a word out of her filthy, lying mouth." Sunglasses' head canted towards Sam, then, but Sam still got the feeling he was watching Ruby.

"Why not? She's helped me, at great risk to herself, and—"

"All a trap." Sunglasses cut smoothly across Sam's defense, smiling a little as Ruby growled.

"_He's_ the one that's lying, Sam. Don't buy into it. When have I ever steered you wrong?" Sunglasses laughed, a short ironic stab of a sound.

"Oh, is _that_ how it is?" Sunglasses' grin turned wry. "And you're planning to pawn off demon blood as a 'magic elixir'?" Sunglasses scoffed. "Please." Ruby's upper lip curled, and Sunglasses smirked. Sam was confused.

"Wait, what's wrong with demon blood? What's it do?" Sunglasses' tone turned bored, but he still didn't glance away from Ruby.

"Well, she's right in that it would help quite a few abilities along. She's right about the exorcising without death, too. But—"

"Don't believe him, Sam!" Ruby exploded, demon-killing knife in hand, lunging for Sunglasses. "This guy's just another demon, jonesing for a piece of the action!" Sunglasses chuckled, dodging her swipes and neatly backpedaling on his—were those _snakeskin?—_boots with all the grace of a tap-dancer. "We have to kill him before he smokes out and squeals to Lilith!" Sunglasses laughed, again.

"You've got to be kidding me! Playing your hand a bit loosely, there, Rubes! _Page._" That last word was Enochian, and Sam didn't understand, but Ruby froze. Sunglasses stepped out from beneath her latest thrust—still in mid-air—and tutted, plucking the knife out of her hand and examining the inscription on the blade. Sam heard a low whistle. "Wow. Nice piece. New, but effective."

"What did—you do to her?" Sunglasses looked up, his forehead knitting together in confusion.

"Eh? You can still move?" Sunglasses huffed, shaking his head and muttering to himself. "Must only work for the angel, then." He sighed, then took the knife in hand, extending the handle towards Sam. "C'mon, we'd better get out of here." Sam stared at him, then back at Ruby. Sunglasses scowled. "What, you trust _her_ but not me?" Sam frowned at him, straightening a little, slowly taking the sawed-off salt shotgun out of his jacket and aiming it carefully at the man—_demon_, rather.

"Give me one good reason why I should." Sunglasses sighed, and took off his sunglasses, looking down and folding them up to hold in one hand. Then he looked up. Sam jumped a bit at the yellow, reptilian eyes, quickly cocking the gun and aiming it at the demon. Sunglasses smiled, warily.

"Don't tell me Dean didn't mention us. Bobby's bibliophilic angel friend and the big black snake?" Sam frowned, but didn't lower the gun.

"That's still not a reason to trust you. Demons can read minds." Those reptilian eyes rolled, and Sam held his gun steady.

"Fine. What about the fact that Rubes, here—" He gestured over his shoulder with a vague wave. "—was trying to sell you on demon blood?" Sam eyed him, not lowering the barrel.

"Well, what's wrong with it? You even said it could—" Sunglasses gave him a wry grin.

"It's not like a nutritional shake, Sam. 's not all good, and also happens to be highly addictive." Sam blinked.

"What?" But Sunglasses' attention had already moved back to Ruby, those odd yellow eyes calculating.

"You're being awfully quiet, in all this. Care to share?" Ruby glared at him.

"Stay out of this, Crawly." Sunglasses actually blinked.

"Oh. Well, that's inconvenient." He sounded annoyed, and Sam watched as the knife shifted in his hand in a quick movement—now, he was holding the handle. Sunglasses smiled like a snake. "Guess Adam missed a bit, then. Can't have you spreading _that_ tidbit around." Ruby sneered at him.

"Who's going to stop me? _You?"_ Sunglasses grinned.

"Check who's holding the knife, Rubes. I'd reconsider your tone if I were you." Sam took a step forward, but stopped as one of Sunglasses' hands went up to stop him. Sunglasses didn't face him, though. "Hold on, Sam." There was no otherworldly effect, just a simple gesture to stay where he was. Sam frowned, glancing at Ruby.

"She still saved my life, you know. I can't just let you kill her." Sunglasses sighed, finally glancing over his shoulder and gracing Sam with an annoyed look.

"What's with this loyalty, eh? I've heard _loads _about little Rubes since she first arrived in Hell." Sunglasses eyed her, again, and Ruby bared her teeth at him. Sunglasses smiled, a little sharply. "She's a double agent. Got to be. She'd never betray Lilith." He peered back at Sam. "Which means that anything she's _told_ you about killing Lilith has got to be a lie, or—" Sunglasses paused, eyes narrowing in thought as he moved to stare at Ruby, again. She glared at him, and a slow look of comprehension dawned on his face. Sunglasses let out a quick breath of a laugh. "Oh. _Oh! _Oh sweet_ Manchester_, that's _clever_!" There was a little bit of glee in that tone, and Sam had to interject.

"What? What is it?" Sam heard a grin in Sunglasses' voice.

"They've got Dean to break the first seal, and were anglin' for_ you_ to break the last. Oh, this is _rich._" Sunglasses purred, leaning in towards Ruby's frozen arm. "Oh, what'd you tell him? What'd you say to try and get him all riled up to kill Lilith? Is _that_ where this was going?" Ruby snarled, again, and Sam was shocked into silence (especially at the _truth_ of it), but Sunglasses just went on, sounding _far_ too amused to be healthy.

"You… You _conniving_ little_—_Did you come up with this all by yourself, or was it Lilith? Nah, it's got to be all you, right?" Sunglasses shook his head in amazement. "That's some pretty good manipulation, right there, but… if you're the type I think you are, you can't be allowed to wander around freely." His tone sobered, sounding almost rueful. "Sorry. But I hear Purgatory's nice, this time of year?" And just like that, before Sam could react, Sunglasses had swept in (with the speed of a striking snake, as it were), and stabbed her in the gut. Ruby choked, gasping as lights played against the skin of her meatsuit. Sam watched as her eyes slowly dulled, Sunglasses pulled out the knife, and she pitched forward onto her face. Dead. Dead and _gone._ Ruby was just—Sam looked up at Sunglasses, who was eying the blood on the blade with distaste, his nose wrinkled. Sunglasses squatted, placing his free hand on the corpse's back.

"Why'd you do that?" Sunglasses peered up at him, face quiet with disbelief.

"What, you _still _don't get it?" He removed his hand from her back, and stood. "You're not stupid, Sam, c'mon." Sam frowned, then blinked, face opening up in realization.

"Wait, what did you—What was that about Dean?" Sunglasses grinned at him, sliding his sunglasses back on and pushing them up the bridge of his nose.

"Catch that, did you? Well, I've got some great news for you, Sam. Dean's out of Hell." Sam's eyes widened.

"What?" Sunglasses nodded, striding towards him with a bit of a smirk.

"Yeah. What say you and I pay a little visit to Bobby's?" Sam frowned.

"Why Bobby's?" Sunglasses peered up at him in amusement. (Even with the sunglasses on, now, Sam could _tell_.)

"Where else would Dean go, after breaking out of his coffin?" Sunglasses' face broke into a grin, and he offered up the demon-killing knife, handle-first. "C'mon, I know you want to see him." Sam glanced at it, then back up to Sunglasses' face, suspicious. He slowly reached for it.

"I guess…" Sunglasses' shoulders relaxed as the demon smiled at him. Sam snatched the knife from him and drove it into his chest. Sunglasses staggered back a step or two, and then cast him an irritated glance. Sam's eyes widened.

"_Nice_, kid. Is this how you treat all your friends?" Sunglasses peered up at him, obviously peeved but not really violently incensed (or _dead_, as he should be). Sunglasses put his hand to the knife and pulled it out, wincing a little before glaring at the tear in his suit. It mended itself before Sam's eyes, the spreading bloodstain disappearing completely.

"But… you… you're a demon!" Sunglasses rolled his eyes (his tone suggested it more than anything else, really).

"I'm a _Fallen._ Get your facts straight." Sam gaped at him, and Sunglasses frowned.

"Look. I'm Crowley." He waved off Sam's gasp, obviously impatient. "No, not _that_ Crowley, but I'm sure you can tell the difference, anyway." He grinned at Sam. "Now that you know you can't kill me, what say we head back to the ol' salvage yard? In fact…" Sunglas—_Crowley _smirked to himself, hands sliding to the pockets of his black slacks as he rode back on his heels, a bit. "Why don't you _call_ Bobby and ask if the angel's there?" Crowley smiled like a snake. "I'm sure he'd be happy to confirm Dean's Resurrection." Sam pursed his lips at him, not liking this turn of events one bit. Crowley simply smiled smugly back at him. "Either way, we should get out of here, soon." Crowley glanced over his shoulder, at Ruby's corpse. Sam frowned, eyes trailing to her, as well.

"She was just possessing that girl. We shouldn't just leave her here, like this." Crowley's head snapped back towards him, his tone tight, guarded.

"We're not burying someone who's got no need of a grave. Let's go." Crowley made to stride past Sam, but Sam caught his arm, voice low and dark as he glared at the demon, grip tight and unyielding.

"She's _human._ I know you can't understand that, but _humans_ don't leave other _humans' _corpses out to decay. Have some respect." Crowley's mouth twisted in a scowl, but the demon didn't look up at him, trying to jerk his arm out of Sam's hold. Sam held firm, gaze steady. Crowley made a small noise of frustration, and glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye—just a sliver of yellow—tone testy.

"Don't talk to me about respect. I know more about humans than you'll ever even _dream_ about, so you should know that if you have the _nerve_ to imply that _all _humans are 'so good as to' bury their dead, you're wrong." Crowley almost hissed, then, and Sam swore he saw a forked tongue flicker out of his mouth as the demon clenched his fingers against Sam's bicep, straightening up, jaw set—proud and defiant.

"Ssso don't _preach_ to me, ssssSam, becausse you know _nosssing_ about humanity." Crowley jerked his arm out of Sam's hold—inhuman strength, right there, because Sam had the grip of a _wrestler _(or so Dean had said)—and stalked off, presumably to wait for Sam outside. Sam frowned after him, but blinked as he heard a small pained sound, behind him. He whirled around, eyes wide as he saw Ruby's corpse moving to push itself up on shaking hands. Big brown eyes slowly moved upward, locking on him.

Those weren't Ruby's eyes. (The girl's lip trembled.)

"W-Where am I? What happened?" Sam was shocked for another moment before he moved forward, whipping out his cell phone to call 911 and doing his best to reassure her that no, he couldn't stay, but help was coming, she just had to wait. Sam's head jerked up as he heard the sounds of demons screaming outside, but he dismissed it, calming her down, again, by saying those sounds had been nothing.

No demon Sam'd ever met had done what Crowley just did.

He didn't know what to think, but the trembling, scared brunette in his arms was too much evidence to the fact that Crowley had simply saved her life. Crowley'd stabbed Ruby, killed her and the girl Ruby was possessing, and then had _healed _the corpse and _brought the girl back to life._

It went against everything Sam had ever known.

…Maybe he _should_ call Bobby. Just to be sure Crowley was on the level.

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 7-16-_

Castiel was a good lad, Aziraphale decided. He was quiet but faithful to his duty—he never left Dean's side. More than once Aziraphale had to hide a smile against his mug as Dean turned around, only to find Castiel _right in his face_. Dean'd asked about Sam first thing, and Aziraphale had assured him that Crowley was on the case. Dean had given him a dubious look, but Aziraphale had only smiled reassuringly and said that Crowley was as good as his word. Castiel didn't seem to care about the conversation, although Aziraphale noted he stilled, attentive, when Sam was mentioned. There must be plans in Heaven for _both_ brothers, then, Aziraphale thought to himself sourly. Heaven's plans never boded very well for anyone involved. Oh, he still had faith in them, certainly, but after the Nopocalypse, when Aziraphale had been quite certain Father did _not_ wish for the world to end, even if Heaven and Hell did—

Aziraphale shook his head. He had still tiptoed around Castiel in certain matters, writing off his absence from Heaven as being stationed on Earth. Aziraphale very carefully avoided mentioning Adam—the boy had wiped everyone's memories, after all, and there was no use dredging it all up, again. Castiel remarked that Aziraphale looked rather familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, and Aziraphale had chuckled and said he simply 'had one of those faces'. (He didn't dare try to clarify that it was because of the broadcast to all of the Host and Legion in 1990 that had likely exposed his current corporation to Castiel's mind.) They were small evasions, tiny lies of omission and Aziraphale felt _horrible _for lying to a brother, but the alternative would alert Heaven of his location and possibly involve Michael. The incident with the Three Fates had helped to bring it home that he and Crowley were _not_ safe simply because Adam had wiped their names from Heaven and Hell's records. There were a number of possibilities that they could still feel retaliation from their respective superiors, and Aziraphale felt very firmly that it was best if everything remained as it was—at least until December 21, 2012. After that date, Aziraphale would gladly submit himself for punishment. He would've earned it, by then.

The angel felt a brief stab of guilt that his giving himself up would leave Crowley alone, but he had had over twenty years to think about this. Crowley was a dear friend (and Aziraphale wouldn't put him in danger for the _world_, not now), but this was Heavenly business. Aziraphale knew he had to face his punishment for insubordination, and he would do so, once this was all over. Crowley simply wasn't worth all the guilt Aziraphale would feel over completely _abandoning_ Heaven. His brothers were still his brothers—still angels, albeit led astray by superiors like Zachariah. Castiel had shown him that. Perhaps when Aziraphale returned to Heaven, Father would reveal himself, would be on his side, and would—

Aziraphale sighed. He hoped he could do some good, Above. Perhaps, if he explained his point of view well enough, they would understand? Aziraphale knew he was only a Principality, but that didn't make his opinions any less valid. The angel felt his mouth quirk, warmly, at what Crowley would say to his thoughts, were Aziraphale to share them. The dear boy would likely try to talk him out of it, bringing up any number of reasons including (but not limited to) it being a waste for Aziraphale to go, it being pointless (as Aziraphale couldn't possbily convince them, they were too set in their ways), it being bloody _stupid_ of him to go, as he'd likely get killed on-sight with one of those silver daggers—

Ah, yes. Castiel's dagger. Aziraphale had politely requested to examine it, and Castiel had furrrowed his brow but handed it over. Aziraphale's chest _ached_ at the trust inherent in the gesture, and knew then that it was his duty to do his best to make Heaven a better place for his brothers. If he failed, he would be punished, and Aziraphale would gladly accept that. But Aziraphale could too-easily see Zachariah asking for Castiel's sword, only to turn it on him. He winced to himself. Such suspicion didn't become him, but dear Castiel was _so _faithful, and narrowly followed his Orders to guide and protect the Righteous Man.

(When Crowley arrived, they would have to take special care that Castiel not try to smite him. But Aziraphale was certain it could all easily be explained over a pot of tea. Castiel didn't seem the over-zealous sort, after all.)

: : :

_-Anno Domini, 2,012, January 16-_

A little over a day later, the Impala rumbled in under the 'Singer Salvage Yard' sign, and Crowley gazed uneasily out at the stacks of cars from the right-hand passenger's seat. Over the hours of driving, Crowley had scrolled through Sam's playlist and they'd found something they could both agree on. The tension between them had diminished considerably after Sam came out of the warehouse, giving Crowley an awkward grin and suggesting he pick the music. Crowley had taken the gesture of peace as it was meant, and they engaged in a silent truce in the long drive back to Sioux Falls. Thankfully, they were not more than ten hours' drive away, and had spent the night at Sam's motel before heading out for South Dakota in the morning.

And now, Crowley could vaguely sense the pulse of Aziraphale's aura closeby, and relaxed a little. He tensed up immediately, though, when he felt _another_ angelic aura, and felt his skin grow cold.

"Uh, Sam." He started, glancing nervously up at the house. The second aura was getting stronger, the closer they got. Sam peered at him out of the corner of his eye, but kept going, working his way through the junked cars.

"Yeah?" Crowley tapped his fingers on his thigh.

"Do you—"

The front door burst open as they rolled to a stop, Dean silhouetted against the hallway. Sam gasped and quickly untangled his seatbelt, hastily shoving his door open as Dean descended. Once both brothers' feet were on stable ground, they ran, then clung to each other in a (manful) brotherly hug. Crowley wrinkled his nose at the blatant show of affection and looked away as he got out, then glanced back at the door. He paled.

There stood an angel.

Not _his_ angel. The scruffy-looking angel narrowed his eyes at him, extending a hand. Crowley recognized the gesture and panicked. He disappeared.

Crowley stumbled to a stop somewhere else about fifty miles away and breathed out slowly, relieved. But his hackles went up as soon he heard a gravely voice behind him.

"There is nowhere to run, demon." Crowley slowly pivoted, spying that same white-scrubs-and-tan-trenchcoat angel he'd seen in Bobby's doorway glaring at him. He tried a weak smile, putting his hands up (palms out), backing away.

"N-Now, let's not be hasty, let's talk about this—" A tiny furrow dipped between the angel's eyes.

"No. You are a threat that cannot be allowed near the Righteous Man." Crowley laughed, nervously, keeping his eyes on the angel but still backing away, hands up in surrender.

"No, I-I _promise_ I won't be a threat to him. Nope, not me." The angel's mouth tightened, and Crowley noticed with horror that his still-extended palm was beginning to glow.

"Demons only lie." Crowley quirked an anxious grin, and beat it the _Hell_ out of there, again, before the angel could flash him into nonexistence.

He went back to Bobby's, storming past the front door and looking frenziedly around for Aziraphale. He spied the angel at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, blinking at him. (Bobby and Jody had presumably gone outside to greet Sam, something in the back of Crowley's mind guessed.)

"Crowl—?" Crowley didn't waste any time and _lunged_ for Aziraphale, snagging him by his arms and whimpering into his neck.

"Don't let him kill me, angel." Aziraphale made a soft tutting noise in his throat (which vibrated against Crowley's nose), one hand lifting to card through the hair at the back of the demon's head.

"Crowley, _dear_, he's not going to—"

"Demon. Unhand my brother." Crowley shivered, glancing back over his shoulder and, sure enough—there was that angel, again, glaring at him as though he were smaller than scum. He hissed without realizing it.

"sssZira, _pleasssse."_ Crowley felt Aziraphale sigh against him, and was a bit reassured when the angel's other arm looped gently around his waist. He heard a calming smile in Aziraphale's voice.

"Now then, Castiel, there's no need for this. Crowley's a friend. An ally." Crowley swore he heard a _growl_ from the angel—Castiel?—behind him, but didn't dare glance back, just hunkering down against Aziraphale, pressing close and firmly _trusting_ Aziraphale to this. The weight of Aziraphale's arm against his hip was warm and steadying.

"Brother. He has corrupted you. You should—"

"He has _not_ corrupted me, but thank you for your concern." Something in Crowley rejoiced at the cool politeness of Aziraphale's voice, but he didn't dare make a comment. "Castiel. _Do _be reasonable." Crowley heard a frown in Castiel's voice.

"Brother. This goes against the laws of Heaven. Falling in with a demon can only lead to ruin." Crowley flinched at that phrasing, but he stilled as Aziraphale softly squeezed his middle, his voice firm.

"Castiel. You shall not smite Crowley while I stand. He has done nothing to deserve it." Crowley tensed a little as he felt Aziraphale shift, slowly turning and maneuvering Crowley behind him. Crowley contemplated clinging, but Aziraphale wasn't looking at him, his grey-blue eyes narrowed at Castiel. Angelic stand-off. Crowley knew enough not to get in the middle of _that_, and so carefully slunk back to hide under the kitchen table, peering up at Castiel from the upside-down 'V' of Aziraphale's legs. Castiel did not glance down at him, but was still visibly displeased, mouth twisting ever-so-imperceptibly to one side.

"Aziraphale. Brother. He is a demon. His mere _existence_ is a sin. Do not do this." Crowley cowered back as Castiel glared straight down at _him_, then, but Aziraphale's stance was set, his voice unyielding and _just_ a touch chillier, but still matter-of-fact.

"Crowley has returned Sam to Dean's side. Surely, in the interest of Dean's welfare, this can only be _good_?" Castiel's expression turned affronted, although it was barely there, his eyes flashing.

"Sam Winchester is not a good influence. Surely you know what is Foretold, that—" Castiel paused, then, squinting at Aziraphale. Crowley felt a small surge of unease as the angel's eyes widened, slowly. "You do not know the Plan?" Crowley felt Aziraphale's aura spike with panic.

"Now, Castiel_—"_

"You are not with Heaven, at all! You have _Descended._" Castiel's tone was blank but still aghast, somehow, and Crowley felt the fear for his own safety overcome by fear for _Aziraphale's. _If Heaven got word—Crowley realized Aziraphale's voice had become a tad pained.

"Castiel, _please_, it's not—"

But Castiel was gone. Crowley slowly crept out from under the kitchen table, and as he straightened he noticed Aziraphale's hands were trembling. Not thinking, he caught the angel by his wrists and forced him to face him. Aziraphale's face was pale, drawn of all color, his eyes wide and looking off at some place beyond Crowley's shoulder—but otherwise, he looked calm.

"Castiel—he's gone to—to tell Heaven that I—" Crowley frowned, letting his hands slide up to grasp Aziraphale's arms.

"Angel." No response. He shook him, once, irritated. "_Aziraphale." _Blue-grey eyes shifted slowly to him, still too wide for comfort. Crowley felt his frown deepen, and found himself squeezing Aziraphale's elbows, firm for an instant. "It's fine. They won't remember who you are." Aziraphale laughed, shortly, and shook his head, looking down.

"Oh… Oh, _Crowley, _you don't—" He sniffled, and Crowley huffed to himself, drawing the angel in for a quick (if grudging) hug around the shoulders. Aziraphale's arms wrapped around his middle, grip immediate but shaky.

"Shut up. Don't worry about it." Aziraphale shook his head, cheek pressed against Crowley's shoulder.

"Dearest, you don't understand. Once Heaven hears of a rogue angel, if won't _matter_ if they don't remember me. They'll still send someone down, and then—" Crowley's grip tightened, and Aziraphale went silent.

"Fuck _that_, angel. They're not taking you without a fight."

_Not this time, _Crowley added fiercely in his head.

~END CHAPTER TEN~


End file.
